


No Such Thing as a Happy Ending

by CelestialVoid



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Derek Hale as the Beast (Beauty and the Beast), Gen, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Slow Build, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Has Panic Attacks, Stiles Stilinski as Beauty (Beauty and the Beast), Stiles Stilinski as Belle (Beauty and the Beast), Unrequited Love, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-20 11:38:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 21,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10661799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelestialVoid/pseuds/CelestialVoid
Summary: Stiles is a boy who is dissatisfied with provincial life in the small French town of Beacon Hills, constantly trying to fend off the misplaced courtship of the detestable Peter Hale and escape to a fictional world of wonder where his mind can roam free.The Beast is a prince who lives in isolation after he was placed under a curse until such a time as he could learn to love.A wrong turn taken by John, Stiles’ father, causes the two to meet.





	1. Chapter 1

_This is the story of the boy who loved the beast: the story of myself and the man I love._

_I never believed in a ‘happily ever after’; it was a cliché ending that drove home a sickening expectation of how every story should end. I knew my story wouldn’t end that way._

_Then again, my story does start like a fairy tale._

_Once upon a time in a faraway land, a young prince lived alone in a shining castle. Although he had everything his heart desired, the price was selfish and unkind. His heart had been blackened by tragedy and his soul corrupted._

_One winter’s night, many years ago, an old beggar woman came to the castle and offered the prince a single rose in return for shelter from the bitter cold and raging storm._

_Repulsed by her haggard appearance, the prince sneered at the gift and turned the woman away. But she warned him not to be deceived by appearances for beauty is found within. When the prince dismissed her again, the old woman’s abhorrent exterior melted away to a radiant image, swirls of golden light like the waves of her golden hair, her skin glowing like the sun and her ragged robes melting away to an elegant gown the diminished into nothing more than light and wisps of colour, rolling across the tiles like fog across the forest floor. There, the old haggard woman stood before him no more, and in her place stood a beautiful enchantress._

_The prince tried to apologise, he fell to his knees and begged for forgiveness, but it was too late; she had seen that there was no love in his heart. As punishment, she placed a powerful spell on the castle. The staff turned to ornate furnishings and anthropomorphic trinkets. The price turned into a monster, a hideous beast: his flesh turned to fur, his teeth turned to fangs, his nails turned to claws, his robes torn to rags as his body morphed into that of a monstrous, wolf-like creature._

_Ashamed of his monstrous form, the beast concealed himself inside his castle with a magical mirror as his only window to the outside world._

_The rose the enchantress had offered him was truly an enchanted rose; it would bloom for many years, but the petals were bound to fall and wilt. With every petal that fell, the castle crumbled to ruins, the living furniture came closer to being antiques and the beast lost more and more of his humanity. However, if he could learn to love another and earn their love in return by the time the last petal fell, the spell would be broken. But if not, he would be doomed to remain a beast for all time._

_As the years passed, he fell into despair and lost all hope. For who could ever learn to love a beast?_

 

Beacon Hills, the quaint little French town nestled among the lush green hillsides, expansive emerald fields of farmland, and dense forests that border their piece of paradise and shut them off from the rest of the world. It was idyllic, for most people at least.

Stiles Stilinski, however, did not find it so. He found it provincial, isolating and dreary.

He woke that morning to the cooing of the chickens in his yard. He rose from his bed, folding up the threadbare blanket that was spread across his bead before dressing in a dull blue cotton shirt, a pair of dull brown trousers and he worn leather boots. He neatened his hair, grabbed the book that sat on his bedside table and the satchel that hung by the door, and made his way out of the house, stepping out into the cobblestone streets.

The chickens pecked around his feet before ducking under the low rods of the wooden fence and returning to the small garden patch before their house.

He made his way through the town, alone in the streets that was lit by the first few rays of sunlight that peaked over the horizon. He opened the book, flipping through pages that had been thumbed smooth by repetitive reading until he found the one he was looking for. His eyes drifted over the printed texts, he made his way down into the centre of the town.

The sun rose over the peaks, warming the land and prompting the town to burst to life.

The shutters of houses burst open and neighbours cheerfully greeted each other, “Bonjour!”

Stiles smiled at the simplicity of it all, making his way down the street and towards the baker.

The man stood out the front of his shop, dressed in an old, stained apron and his face and hands dusted with flour. He held a tray of fresh bread in his hand, setting aside the rolls and baguettes aside in his storefront display.

Stiles stepped over to the man’s side, offering him a dull silver coin.

The baker smiled and handed Stiles his usual order of a fresh roll and a baguette.

“Good morning, Stiles,” the baker said softly. “Where are you off to?”

“The church,” Stiles answered. “I just finished the most wonderful story about a beanstalk and a monstrous giant and…”

The man nodded but it was clear that he wasn’t interested.

Stiles sighed and silenced himself. He tucked the baked goods away into the satchel his head slung over his shoulder. He thanked the baker and went on his way. He returned to his story, finishing off the final few pages he had long memorised but still loved. He walked through the streets and towards the old church made of boulders and bricks and covered in thick vines of ivory and moss.

“Look, there he goes,” an aristocratic woman remarked. “That boy is strange, no question. He’s always dazed and distracted, never part of any crowd. He’s always got his nose in a book and his head in the clouds. A funny boy he is, too peculiar for his own good.”

Stiles pretended not to hear her, swallowing hard and focusing on the words on the page before him. He nimbly wove his way through the crowd as they greeted each other with repetitive chants of ‘Hello’, ‘Good day’, ‘How’s your family?’ and bargains for sales of eggs, bread, fish and milk.

Stiles collected his groceries and made his way over to the church. He knocked at the door and the priest let him in.

“Good morning, Father,” Stiles said with a kind smile. “I’ve come to return the book I borrowed.”

“Finished already?” the priest remarked, shocked.

“I couldn’t put it down. Have you got anything new?” Stiles asked.

“No,” the priest said, a hint of remorse in his voice. “But feel free to borrow any of those you’ve already read.”

“Thank you,” Stiles whispered, making his way over to the stack of eight books that were lined up on the shelf next to the eighteen copies of the Holy Bible that the priest handed out to his parishioners.

Stiles placed _Jack and the Beanstalk_ back among the others, reading the fine golden print on the worn spines as he tried to decide which to read. He picked one out, running his hand over the ornate details etched into the leather cover of _The Nightingale_.

It was one of his favourite stories.

“May I borrow this one?” Stiles asked.

“Of course,” the priest replied.

“Thank you, Father,” Stiles said gratefully before turning to leave.

“Say hello to your father for me,” the priest called after him.

Stiles stepped out into the streets, making his way back towards his small cottage.

The townspeople began to talk again, stands of conversation reaching Stiles on wisps of wind: “Look, there he goes again - - that boy is so peculiar - - I wonder if he’s well  - - look at that dreary, far-off look, he must be ill - - he’s deluded by the stories in those books, his mind clouded with fiction and lies.”

Stiles’ heart ached. He lifted the book higher, blocking out the sight of the world around him as he marched on through the crowded streets.

“Such a shame to waste such good looks,” one woman remarked.

“Such a waste of space,” one man growled.

Stiles picked up the pace, practically sprinting back towards his house.

He yelped as he ran into the solid figure of the man who stood in the centre of the path. He looked up, eyes wide as he frantically apologised.

He met the gaze of the man that towered over him, his piercing blue eyes focused on the young man and his stern jaw set in place. The man’s chin was covered in a dusting of whiskers and his hair was long but slicked back and groomed to look impeccable. He was the talk of the town, the handsome stranger among their midst.

Peter Hale.

“Peter,” Stiles gasped, bowing his head respectfully. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s quite alright,” Peter replied in his suave manner, offering Stiles a kind smile that looked more cynical than anything else. “How are you today, Stiles?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Stiles replied, hastily stepping side and walking around the man.

Peter followed him, matching his pace and snatching the book from Stiles’ hands.

“Peter,” Stiles said, voice firm and threatening. “My book, if you’d please.”

Peter glared at the text-covered pages and sneered, “You can read this? There’s no pictures.”

“Some people use their imagination,” Stiles muttered, taking the book back from the man.

“Stiles, imagination is a dangerous thing,” Peter said condescendingly. “You really should get your head out of those books and back to reality where you can focus on more important things.”

“Like you?” Stiles replied nonchalantly.

“Exactly,” Peter said boastfully. “The whole town is thinking the same thing. It’s not right for a boy to cloud his mind with fantasy and fiction.”

Peter’s face twisted into a wicked grin as he put on a charismatic and flirtations act.

“Why don’t you take a walk with me?” he asked, his husky voice smooth and warm. “We can go to the tavern, have a drink and admire my trophies.”

“Why don’t we not?” Stiles replied, continuing his way back home.

“Come on, Stiles,” Peter cooed. “I know how you feel about me.”

“You obviously don’t,” Stiles uttered under his breath.

He pushed open the small gate to their garden patch and hastily shut it behind himself, blocking Peter’s path. He turned around to look at the man.

“Peter,” Stiles started.

“Stiles,” Peter said softly, leaning forward and bringing his face close to Stiles’.

“I have to go inside and help my father,” Stiles announced. “Why don’t you scurry off back to the tavern and admire your trophies?”

Stiles quickly turned and hurried inside before Peter could say anything else. He shut the front door behind himself, leaning back against it as he tried to steady his breathing. From within the house he heard the quiet tinkle of a music box, the soft melody drifting through the house.

Stiles couldn’t help but smile as he followed the sound to the small office tucked in the corner of the dining room. His father sat at the disk, tinkering with the small ornate music box, his favourite one. It was a tower-like shape, the gleaming sliver painted with vibrant blues, yellows and reds. It opened to a scene of a man painting a portrait of his wife and their newborn son.

Stiles’ eyes drifted across the room to where that painting sat by the window.

John lifted his gaze to meet his son’s.

“It’s working,” John whispered as if he were scared that if he said I loud enough he would jinx it.

“I told you it would,” Stiles replied. “Because you are the incredible inventor John Stilinski and here isn’t anything that you can’t do.”

John smiled, a soft blush colouring his cheeks.

“When do you leave for the fair?” Stiles asked, stepping over to the desk and helping his father box away the other music boxes and trinkets the had made to be sold in Paris.

“Soon,” John replied. “I just need to finish packing these boxes, load them into the cart and saddle up Phillipe.”

Stiles set a box aside and stepped back into the small kitchenette. He set his satchel down on the counter top and began to put away the bread, cheese, fish, fruit and other groceries he had gathered in the market.

“Did you have a good time in town?” John asked.

“I returned the book to Father Parrish and he let me borrow another one,” Stiles announced. “He also says hello and he hopes you’re well.”

“Ah, Jordan, always looking out for us,” John muttered as he joined his son in the kitchen and pored them each a glass of water from the pitcher on the bench.

“So where are you off to now?” John asked. “Verona? London? An adventure of mystery and romance and happy endings?”

“There’s no such thing as a happy ending,” Stiles whispered.

John’s face fell, his heart aching for his son.

“I’m off to Denmark to hear the tale of an Emperor who prefers the tinkling of a bejewelled mechanical bird to the song of a real nightingale. It’s said that when the Emperor is near death, the nightingale's song restores his health,” Stiles said.

“That sounds fantastic,” his father replied, genuinely interested. “Tell me more.”

“One day, the Emperor’s mechanical bird breaks and a farmer brings him a real nightingale, one that had delighted his fields many time with her sweet songs,” Stiles explained. “The nightingale is put in a golden cage, given the finest seeds and asked to sing for the Emperor. At first the nightingale is delighted, but she soon realises she’s caged and wants to be free. She cannot force herself to sing, but she agrees that if the Emperor is to release her, she would return every day and sing him to good health.”

“And does he?” John asked, enthralled with his son’s tale as he sips at his glass of water.

“Not for a while, but eventually he does set the nightingale free,” Stiles assured him.

“And does she return to sing?”

“Yes,” Stiles whispered. “Every day. Not because she’s compelled to, but because she wants to.”

“That’s a wonderful story,” John whispered.

Stiles’ soft smile fell.

“Dad,” he rasped. “If I ask something, will you be honest with me?”

“Aren’t I always?” John replied.

Stiles nodded. He paused for a moment before he asked, “Do you think I’m odd?”

John scoffed.

“My son, odd?” John repeated, chuckling at the thought. “Now where would you ever get an idea like that?”

Stiles shrugged. “I don’t know. People talk.”

“They talk about me too,” John pointed out. “I’m not odd, and neither are you. We’re just a couple of people who are sane enough to see through the insanity of this repressed world.”

“A poetic response,” Stiles muttered. “Now, come on, we must load the cart and get you on your way before it’s dark.”

Stiles helped his father carry the boxes out into the cart, stacking them and strapping them into place. He collected the saddle and reins from the railing of the balcony and fitted them onto his father’s faithful horse, Phillipe.

Stiles passed his father a bag with food and a flask of water in it.

“Be careful,” Stiles advised, although it was more of a plea.

“I will be,” his father assured him. “And what shall I get you from the fair this year?”

“A rose,” Stiles replied.

“Every month, you ask for the same thing,” his father pointed out.

“And every month you bring it,” Stiles countered.

His father smiled, giving his son one last hug before climbing into the seat on the cart and taking a hold of the reins.

“You had best behave while I’m gone,” John called to his son.

“When have I ever done otherwise?” Stiles replied with as mischievous smile.

“Goodbye, Stiles.”

“Goodbye, dad,” Stiles farewelled, standing by the gate and watching as his father urged Phillipe on. The horse trotted down the cobblestone street, the cart and John in tow as they slowly disappeared out of view.


	2. Chapter 2

The cart rattled on through the thick woods.

The usual autumn tones of brown, gold and red were darkened by the night, now a dreary mix of greys and heavy black shadows. Dense foliage hung overhead, enclosing the space, shutting out the sky and filtering moonlight. Streams of silver light surrounded him, not enough to see but just enough to distinguish shapes from shadows.

Among the darkness he could make out the fluorescent bleached skeletons of the birch trees, their slender trunks lining the shadows as eye-like rings watched him from all angles.

Twigs and leaves crackled, rustled and broke beneath the turning wheels as Phillipe timidly walked on through the forest.

Fallen branches snagged at the horse’s hooves and the extended limbs of craggy trees clawed at the cart like the hands of the damned, ready to drag them down into the inky black abyss.

“Easy, Phillipe,” John said softly. “Just stay on the trail and we’ll be fine.”

A thundering boom rolled overhead as heavy storm clouds swelled above the tree tops.

The was a loud crack as a lightning bolt struck the tree in front of them, the flash of light blinding them and igniting the broken tree branch.

Phillipe reared back and John fought to control the reins.

“Easy,” John shouted, pulling back on the reins and steering the horse away from the crackling log that blocked the trail.

The heat of the blaze radiated against his skin, the glow making the beads of sweat glisten on his skin and tears sting his eyes. His nose was filled with the bitter scent of ash and the rich scent of burning pine. Smoke and ash filled his lungs as stared at the path ahead, making him cough and gasp breathlessly.

He pulled back further, noticing how another downed tree had pulled back the branches that shielded a concealed path.

“There, Phillipe,” John instructed, directing the horse towards the newly opened path.

The horse turned and made his way down the new trail at a slightly faster pace.

The wheels rolled across the crunching blanket of snow – an odd sight for July – as the cart bounced about on the uneven ground, tossing them about and weakening the rattling axel.

A wheel struck an upturned root, dislodging the wheel and tossing John from his seat.

He hit a nearby tree trunk with a solid, painful thud, falling to the ground. He lay still for a moment, trying to regain his breath. He blinked heavily, clearing his blurred vision. He rose to his feet, holding his head in his hands and stumbling slightly as he made his way over to the ruins of the cart.

Phillipe was nowhere to be seen, but John could hear the horse’s distressed whiney.

“Phillipe,” John called, turning about and squinting to peer through the shadows.

He looked back at the ruined carriage, his heart sinking at the sight of his delicate trinkets and music boxes cast aside in the blanket of snow. The tower-like music box twinkled lightly, the gears unwinding and playing a few sad notes before falling silent and still.

A soft sob made him shudder as he carefully set the music box back in the crate it had fallen from.

Among the silence of the forest came a different noise, the spine-chilling howl of a wolf and a low, rumbling growl.

John froze, slowly turning around to face the wolf that stood on the hilly rise.

Its fur was snowy white, tarnished by patches of dirt and parted to reveal the scars that marred its face. Its shackles rose and its snout pulled back into a vicious snarl as it stared John down. It snapped, exposing the jagged ivory fangs.

A shuddering breath fell from John’s lips as a chill crawled up his spine.

Another wolf appeared to John’s side, then another, and another, until the entire pack was present and encircling John.

“Phillipe!” John cried.

The horse came cantering into the small clearing. He stopped for a second before John, allowing him enough time to climb onto the old leather saddle, grab the reins and spur the horse on. Phillipe cantered past the wolves, running as fast as he could down the track and into the darkness.

Ahead of them, among the shadows of the night, John made out the silhouette of a large cast iron gate.

The hinges groaned and whined they opened and permitted entry to John and his cantering steed.

Phillipe ran ahead into the labyrinth of hedges that filled the gardens before the looking, decrepit castle.

The wolves did not follow. They pulled to a halt before the gates, paced back and forth and retreated into the woods.

Phillipe ran on, pulling up before what looked like a castle in ruins. The towers were crumbling and aged, covered in vines and charred like black smokestacks. Pieces of stone chipped away, leaving some of the smaller towers crumbled to ruins and statues overturned.

The castle was covered in a thick sheet of crisp snow, undisturbed by footprints or animals.

Phillipe pulled up to a halt before the blare staircase that lead to the front door.

John dismounted and secured the reins to a nearby gargoyle. He stepped forward, weary of the intimidating building that loomed over him. He crept up the stairs, the snow crunching beneath his boots. He looked at the large double doors, the rich oak engraved with an elegant design. He grasped the large brass doorknocker and knocked.

The door opened.

“Thank you,” John said gratefully as he stepped inside. “Thank y-”

His voice fell short as he looked behind the door, seeing no-one.

He looked around.

The inside of the house was magnificent. There was an elegant marble stairwell in the centre of the lobby the split at the top. The railings were carved to look like vines and leaves, the minted gold now tarnished with shades of blue and green and covered in dust. Thick suede curtains hung over the clouded glass of the window, the fabric threadbare in patches and shredded at the bottoms. The awnings were covered in cobwebs and the carved ledges were chipped and crumbled. Paintings had fallen off the walls or had been slashed or burnt.

It appeared hollow, lifeless, and empty, like a deserted cathedral.

John swallowed hard, drawing in a deep breath, straightening his back and lifting his chin as he called into the darkness, “I thank you for your hospitality. I do not mean to intrude. I only wish to shelter myself from the storm. I promise I won’t be an inconvenience and I will be gone at dawn.”

“Now you’ve done it,” a hushed whisper came from nearby. “I told you not to let him in.”

“We couldn’t leave him out there for the wolves,” a second voice argued, his voice equally as low.

“Is anyone here?” John asked, cautiously stepping towards the hushed voices.

“If we keep quiet, maybe he’ll go away,” the first voice hissed. “If we’re caught, I blame you for this.”

“Boyd, have a heart,” the second voice scolded. “The poor man is lost and cold. Don’t you remember what it’s like to be wandering on your own, lost and alone.”

“I do,” the first voice, Boyd, said solemnly. “But if the master catches us, I reserve the right to blame you.”

“I can live with that,” the second voice replied.

John turned about, trying to find the source of a voice.

Nearby, a candelabra ignited, the small flame flickering and lighting the surrounding space.

John span around, looking down at the ornate, gold candelabra.

“Bonjour,” the second voice – the _candelabra_ – said. “I am Isaac.”

John froze, staring at the decorative piece in shock. He blinked heavily, rubbing his weary eyes in order to clear the illusion, but it didn’t go away.

“Did… Did you just…?” John stammered.

“Talk,” Isaac finished. “Yes, I did. As did Boyd here.”

The candelabra nodded to the elegant mantle clock beside him.

John took a step forward, looking at the magnificent clock mad of rich, umber oak and golden gears. The face of the clock seemed different from most, the fine design of the black hands appeared malleable and the painted background of the clock face was twisted into what looked to be a human face.

“Exquisite,” John whispered.

The clock shuddered, slinking back into the shadows bashfully.

There was a quiet rattle as a teacart rolled towards him.

“All these years alone must have caused you two to lose your manners,” a woman scolded.

The teacup bounced about on the cart.

“Hello, dear,” she said, stopping before John. “I’m Melissa and you must be freezing. Do you care for a cup of tea?”

“That would be lovely,” John said gratefully, reaching for the small teacup beside her.

It trembled as he grew near and he snatched back his hand with a surprised yelp.

The teacup flinched, hiding behind the pot and whispering, “I think I scared him, mum.”

John crouched down, levelling his eyes with the small teacup as he cooed, “Hello there. What’s your name?”

“Scott,” the teacup replied. Despite his small stature, he sounded as if he were a young man of roughly seventeen years of age, the same as Stiles.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Scott,” John said softly. “If it’s alright with you, I’ll pass on the drink.”

The little teacup nodded, the warm liquid rippling and moving about as he did.

“Then please, monsieur, warm yourself by the fire,” Melissa insisted.

“Thank you, but the sun will be rising soon and I should be on my way back home - - forget the fair,” John replied. He straightened his back and thanked everyone. He turned and made his way back towards the large doors, carefully pulling them open and stepping out into the brisk air.

He made his way down the stairs, unhooked Phillipe’s reins from the crumbling gargoyle and climbed into the saddle. He began to ride on, following the kicked up clumps of snow that they had tacked on their way in, back through the gardens and towards the gates.

John pulled Phillipe to a halt for a moment, the early morning light drawing his eye to a nearby rosebush.

 _Stiles_ , he thought.

He dismounted Phillipe and stepped over to the bush, admiring the blossoming flowers.

He knew why Stiles always asked for a rose every month: they were his mother’s favourite flower and it was Stiles’ own way of keeping the memory of his mother close.

He couldn’t deny his son that simple of a request.

John gently brushed his fingers across the soft velvety petals. He reached down and snapped he stem plucking the flower form the bush.

He turned around and found himself abandoned. Phillipe had run off, leaving him alone in the cold.

There was a rustle in the bushes in front of him. Clumps of leaves and low hanging branches crackled, shook and bowed as a big black shadow stepped into the open like a slinking cat. The creature’s broad feet thumped the ground, claws digging into the mud, upturning the dirt and releasing the sweet earthy petrichor.

The silhouette froze, turning to face John.

A pair of bright eyes turned on him, their jade depths overcome by a crimson glow as the creature let out a low, threatening growl and rose up onto its hind feet.

Its large form was unhuman; standing tall on curved, slender legs, its bright red eyes were set above an elongated snout, and long arms hung at its side. Its hands were disfigured, hairy like a wolf’s paws and stretched into elongated digits, supporting thick, curved claws that lit by the final few bleeding streams of moonlight.

John froze, eyes wide, as he came face to face with the horrific figure.

The beast.


	3. Chapter 3

“I can’t believe it,” a young woman cried hysterically, tears trailing down her cheeks. “I don’t believe it! It can’t be true!”

“Why would he do such a thing?” another young woman wailed.

They leapt from their seat, racing across the street and falling at Peter’s feet.

“Say it isn’t true,” they begged.

“It’s true,” Peter announced.

They girls’ hysteric cries grew louder.

“Girls, girls,” Peter cooed. “Do tell me such a little thing like _marriage_ is going to change your feelings for me?”

“Oh no, never,” the girls promised.

He reached forward and caressed their cheeks.

“We’ll always have our rendezvous, won’t we?” Peter purred.

“Of course,” they replied. “Always.”

“In that case, I shall catch up with you lovely ladies later, shan’t I?” Peter said, stepping around the young ladies and making his way down the street to the small fenced off garden patch.

He vaulted the fence and sauntered up the front door. He knocked on the thick wood.

“Hello?” he called, but there was no answer. “Stiles?”

Stiles made his way up his street, stopping at the fence and looking around in hope that he could duck out of sight unnoticed. But he wasn’t so lucky. Instead, he drew in a deep breath and held his head high, pushing open the garden gate and stepping inside.

“Peter,” he greeted with false smile. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Isn’t it?” Peter said, his voice smooth and deep. “I’m just full of surprises. You know, Stiles, there isn’t a girl – or by – in town who wouldn’t love to be in your shoes; this is the day your dreams come true.”

“What would you know about my dreams, Peter?” Stiles asked, stepping around the man and up the small steps that lead to the patio.

“Plenty,” Peter replied. “Just picture this: a rustic hunting lodge, my latest kill roasting on the fire, my darling-” He gently ran his finger under Stiles’ chin. Stiles pulled back but Peter continued, “-rubbing my shoulders and massaging my feet, while the little ones play on the floor with the dogs. Six or seven of them?”

“Dogs or children?” Stiles asked.

“Both,” Peter replied. “Hounds and spaniels and seven dashing young lads like me.”

“You do know how children are born, right?” Stiles scoffed.

Peter ignored his comment, chasing Stiles up the stairs. “Marry me, Stiles.”

“Thank you for the offer, but no,” Stiles said hastily, ducking into his house and pulling the door shut behind himself. He slid the lock shut and ducked down, pressing his back to the door, curling up in a ball, and silently wishing for the man to go away.

“How’d it go?” a familiar voice called form outside.

“You know Stiles,” Peter replied. “Always playing hard to get.”

“He turned you down?” the other man asked.

“Mark my words, Chris,” Peter growled, joining his friend. “Stiles will be mine.”

“Peter, I served with you in the war, I was by your side through countless battles, and trust me when I say this is one fight you’re never going to win,” Chris said firmly.

“I’ll prove you wrong.”

Chris chuckled. “I’d like to so you do just that.”

Their voices trailed away as they walked off into the centre of town.

Stiles peered through the window, checking they had left before stepping back outside. He collected the chicken feed and began to toss it over the garden while muttering to himself, “Marry Peter? What a grotesque thought. No way, never, no. There must me more than this provincial life.”

His musings were interrupted by the sound of thundering hooves and distressed whinnying.

He dropped the bucket of feed and ran to the garden gate. The hinges protested their brutish handling as Stiles hurled the gate open and ran into the street.

The horse came charging right at him.

Stiles grabbed the reins, pulling the horse to a stop and whispering to him, “Easy, Phillipe. Whoa. Easy now.”

He gently shushed the horse, patting his tousled mane and taking in the sight of the slightly bloodied hooves, the once-brilliant white coat tarnished by mud and dirt and the sheen of sweat on his skin.

Stiles looked back down the cobblestone road, his heart beating rapidly as he waited. But nothing changed: there was no cart nor passenger.

“Phillipe,” Stiles muttered, his voice strained with fear. “Where’s my dad?”

The horse huffed, pulled back and thumped his hooves against the ground.

“Where’s my father?” Stiles asked again, more firmly.

Phillipe repeated the action.

“Take me too him,” Stiles instructed, mounting the worn saddle and grasping the reins tight. “Take me to my dad, Phillipe.”

Without further instruction, the horse took off back down the path it had come from, back through the woods, down the concealed path and to the old cast iron gates that sat before the castle.

The gardens were full of hedges that had grown out of shape, rose bushes and vines of ivy that had crawled about and clawed at the barren branches and disfigured skeletal trunks of the twig-like trees. Everything was covered in snow.

Phillipe slowed as he trotted through labyrinth.

Stiles shuddered, a cloud-like wisp of his face swilling before his face.

“Snow? In July?” Stiles muttered through chattering teeth. “That’s… weird.”

Phillips chuffed in agreeance, pulling up before the large fleet of stairs that lead into the castle.

“This is where dad is?” Stiles asked as he dismounted Phillipe.

He looked up at the crumbling building, taking a moment to steady his breathing before running up the stairs. He stopped before the large oak doors, carefully pushing them open so that he didn’t make a sound.

From within the shadows of the house he heard the quiet voice of a young man.

“I can’t help it if you’re _inflexible_ , Boyd. It’s not my fault you’re so _tightly wound_ and _ticked off_.”

“I swear to God, Isaac, if I ever get my arms back, I’m going to unleash hell on you for all the stupid puns you’ve made over the past five years,” Boyd hissed.

“Hello?” Stiles called into the darkness.

The voices fell silent.

“Hello? Is anyone here?” Stiles shouted. “Please, I’m looking for my father.”

“Stiles?” his father’s voice called from the darkness, echoing down the halls of the palace.

Stiles let out a shuddering sigh of relief, grabbing the nearby candelabra and racing up the stairs. He fallowed the echoes of his father’s voice, up the staircases and down a tunnelling hallway that lead to the northern wing. His booths tapped against the marble tiles as he ran faster and faster, his heart pounding against his rib and his lungs burning as they yearned for the sweet relief of air.

“Dad!” he cried out, sprinting up the spiralling staircase of a tower. “Dad!”

“Stiles?” the man called again, leaning out through the bars of his jail cell.

Stiles leapt forward, setting down the candelabra and falling to his knees before the cell. He reached through the bars, grabbing fistfuls of his father’s clothes and clinging to him.

“How did you find me?” his father whispered.

“Your hands are like ice,” Stiles said, ignoring his father’s question and holding his dad’s hands in his own to warm them. “We have to get you out of here.”

“Stiles, listen to me,” John said firmly. “You must leave. Now.”

“I won’t leave you here,” Stiles argued.

“There’s no time, Stiles. You must go,” John insisted. He looked up, his eyes drawn to the shadowy figure that appeared behind his son. “Stiles, please, go. Now.”

Stiles rose to his feet and turned around, staring defiantly into the shadows.

“Who are you?” Stiles called into the darkness.

The only sound that returned was the heavy breathing of an animal.

“My name is Stiles Stilinski and I demand you release my father at once,” Stiles shouted.

The was a low rumbling growl as the dark figure approached from the shadows. A deep voice tore through Stiles’ chest as the man said, “I am the mater of this castle and I do not take orders from anyone.”

“You’ve imprisoned an innocent man,” Stiles argued, refusing to stand down.

“He is not innocent,” the man howled. “He is a thief!”

“A thief? And what exactly did he take from you?” Stiles asked.

“A rose.”

Stiles flinched.

“You have one minute to leave the grounds or I will charge you with trespassing and throw you in the cell with him,” the man growled, turning with the flurry of his cape and moving further into the shadows.

“Wait,” Stiles begged, his voice weak. “He took that rose for me, because I asked for one. It is my fault and I beg you, take me instead.”

“No!” John cried.

The man turned, his ears pricked in curiosity. “What did you just say?”

“Take me instead,” Stiles repeated with more confidence than he had.

“You would take his place?” the man asked.

“If I did, would you let him go?” Stiles countered.

“Yes, but that would mean you would have to stay here forever,” the man pointed out.

“No! Stiles, please, listen to me,” John begged. “I lost your mother, I can’t lose you too.”

Stiles fought back the waves of tears, balling his hands into fists as he swallowed hard and said, “Come into the light.”

The man didn’t move.

“If I’m going to make a deal the least you can do is face me like a man and step into the light!” Stiles barked.

There was another low growl as the man stepped forward. The shadows receded and the dull glow of the candelabra lit the monster’s face.

A pair of bright aventurine eyes met his gaze, set above a wolf-like snout as the beast snarled at him.

Stiles gasped as the beast stepped forward, towering over him on curved, slender legs.

The beast wore clothes – a dress shirt, pans and a flowing cape – but they were torn to shred with age, wear and the disfigurement of his body. Long arms hung at its side, his hands disfigured, hairy like a wolf’s paws and stretched into elongated digits with jagged claws.

“I want you to promise me that you will release my father,” Stiles said firmly. “I want you to promise me you’ll let me say goodbye and that you will not let harm come to him upon his release.”

“No,” John cried, reaching through the bars with trembling hands as tears streaked his weary cheeks. “Please, I beg of you. Spare my son.”

The best ignored the man’s pleas, his eyes focused on Stiles as he reached for the nearby lever and pulled it down. The gears rattled as the jail cell door opened.

“You have one minute,” the beast growled. “And when that cell door closes it shall not open ever again.”

Stiles nodded and turned around, falling into his father’s arms.

John pulled the boy into his arms, holding his son close to his chest and cradling him in his arms as he buried his face in the tousled mess of his son’s unkempt hair and cried.

“I’ll be okay, dad,” Stiles whispered, hugging his father tight. “I promise.”

“Stiles, don’t do this,” his father begged.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles replied, gently encouraging his father to his feet. He took a step back, looking his father in the eye. “I promise I’ll be alright… I promise I’ll find a way to escape.”

“Stiles-“

Before his father could say anything else. Stiles gently shoved him out of the cell and slammed the door shut.

“Stiles, no!” his father cried, scrambling back across the floor and grabbing at the bars.

“I’m sorry, dad,” Stiles rasped, glistening tears welling in his eyes.

The beast grabbed the man by the collar of his shirt, dragging him down the staircase.

“Stiles!”

His father’s screams echoed through the castle, tearing at the boy’s heart and shaking the tears from his eyes.

He clasped his hands over his mouth, falling back against the rough brick wall of his cell and sinking to the floor. He curled up upon himself, his body shuddering as the tears fell.

His vision was blurred with the tears that stung his eyes. He failed to draw breath. His lungs burnt, the fiery agony radiating through his flesh. Stiles pressed the palms of his hands against his forehead, running his trembling fingers through his hair and grabbing at fistfuls of his unkempt locks. He tugged at the stands of soft locks, his scalp stinging but not matching the growing burning agony in his chest, as if he had inhaled matchsticks and petrol and this was the flame that set it all alight.

He was desperate to draw breath but his lungs failed him. He felt as if a swarm of hornets had been set free in his chests or that firebirds were shredding the tissue with their talons, destroying him from the inside out.

It was becoming impossible for him to breathe.

His broken sobs fell from trembling lips as he tried to move his mouth and form words.

Flashes of light and colours blinded him.

The welling tears in his eyes grew heavier.

He was light-headed.

His body wavered, unsteady.

He felt his body rock forward as he pulled his body forward and curled up in a ball with his forehead pressed to the old floor.

 _Breathe_ , he told himself. _Breathe._ _It’ll be okay… Just breathe._


	4. Chapter 4

The cell door groaned and clanged as it swung back on its rusty hinges.

Stiles stayed where he was, curled up against the curve of the window and staring out at the world outside as the light began to dwindle and vibrant colours streaked the sky.

“Hello,” a timid voice greeted, a familiar one: the boy who had been making all the ‘stupid puns’ earlier.

“What do you want?” Stiles growled, keeping his eyes on the drifting clouds.

“I’m here to show you to your room,” the boy explained.

“My room?” Stiles asked. “But I thought…”

“Did you really think he meant that whole ‘when that cell door closes it shall not open ever again’ act, did you?” the boy asked. “He talks up a big game but his bark is worse than his bite. Now come on, or do you want to stay in the dungeon?”

“I’m contemplating it,” Stiles uttered under his breath as he turned to look at the boy.

He froze, eyes wide and heart skipping a beat as his eyes fell on the small figure in the doorway. A candelabra made of twisted brass designed to look like a sleek, boyish figure, but still maintaining the decorative details of twisted vines coiled around the stand, blooming flower buds etched into the metal, and leaves branching out around the stand, arms and the cups that held the candles. The candlewax dripped down over the polished brass, the flames flickering but nor burning down.

“Follow me,” the candelabra insisted.

Stiles stayed put.

“I’d suggest you hurry up before the door closes,” a second voice – a clock – said.

Stiles swallowed hard, nodding and rising to his feet.

“I have got to be dreaming,” Stiles muttered to himself. “There’s no way this is real.”

“Really?” the candelabra asked, turning around and toddling backwards so that he could keep his eyes on Stiles. “Your father was imprisoned by a monstrous beast in a castle long forgotten by the world and you think that a talking candelabra and anthropomorphic mantle clock is the weirdest thing to happen to you today?”

“Okay, that’s fair,” Stiles replied.

Isaac, the candelabra, lead Stiles through the dark, dreary castle, back down the northern staircase and into the eastern wing.

“Welcome to your new home,” Isaac said somewhat cheerfully. “You are free to go anywhere you like. Anywhere except the west wing.”

“Why?” Stiles asked. “What’s in the west wing?”

Boyd – the clock – began to hiss and flail as if trying to silently signal Isaac.

“Nothing,” Isaac replied. “There is no west wing. It is broken and hazardous and we don’t want you getting hurt. So, you must promise to never go into the west wing.”

“Okay,” Stiles agreed.

“This will be your room,” Isaac announced, pushing open the door and ushering Stiles inside. “If you need anything, let us know.”

Without another word, they shut the doors and left, leaving Stiles along in the large room.

The boy spun about, taking in his surroundings.

The room was large, bigger than his entire house back in Beacon Hills. The plastered walls were painted a soft sky blue, the plaster set into panels that was decorated with a floral border. The furniture was minimal for such a large room: a wardrobe, a vanity, a small bedside table, and a massive bed with a canopy made of pale blue velvet with a gold fringe. Everything was painted gold or decorated with gold ornaments.

It would have been magnificent if Stiles didn’t see it as anything more than a decorated jail cell.

“I’ve made my choice,” Stiles told himself. “I refuse to believe I made the wrong decision. My dad is free and safe and that’s all that matters.”

He let out a heavy sigh, making his way over to the gaping window and looking down.

The room he was in was high up in one of the towers, too high for him to climb down even if he had rope or grips.

His heart sank into his gut. He stepped back from the window and crossed the room, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He hung his head in his hands.

“Hello,” a gentle voice called from across the room.

Stiles looked up and saw that the wardrobe doors had opened, the silt curtains fitted on the inside morphing to look like a face.

Stiles stared in shock.

“Shall we get you dressed for dinner?” she asked.

“I’m not going,” Stiles replied.

“But of course you are! Now, let’s see what we have in here… Not much in terms of male wear but I’m sure I can find something suitable for a young man such as yourself.”

“I’m not going to dinner,” Stiles repeated.

There was a quiet knock at the door, interrupting the two of them.

“Who is it?” Stiles muttered.

“My name is Melissa, sweetie,” a woman called from the other side of the door. “I’ve brought you a nice cup of tea.”

“Come in,” Stiles called.

The door opened and a tea cart rolled in with no-one driving it.

Stiles looked down at the teapot.

“Hello, darling,” Melissa greeted with a sweet smile. “Do you want a cup of tea?”

“Thank you, but no. I don’t think I can stomach anything right now,” Stiles admitted.

“That was a brave thing you did,” Melissa said softly. “Taking your father’s place. That takes a lot of bravery and a good heart.”

“Thank you,” Stiles replied but he didn’t mean it. His mind drifted to the thoughts of how he had left his father alone and to the memory of the man screaming his name as he was dragged away. “I’m going to miss him.”

“I know things seem bleak right now but you mustn’t despair. You’re safe here and we’ll do everything we can to make this a second home for you,” Melissa promised. “Now, why don’t you have a nice cup of tea to calm your nerves and let Lydia dress you up. If anything, it’ll amuse her.”

“Lydia,” Stiles said, repeating the name before realising Melissa was talking about the wardrobe.

“Yes?” she replied, her voice full of excitement.

Stiles let out a heavy sigh and caved. “I’ll let you dress me, on one condition: it can’t be anything too… extravagant.”

“Simple yet classy…” Lydia thought for a moment.

While she was distracted, Melissa drove the tea cart forward until it bumped the edge of the bed.

A small tea cup toddled forward on the tray, careful in his movements as he tried not to spill his warm contents.

Stiles couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight.

“What’s your name?” Stiles asked as he carefully lifted the cup into his hands.

“Scott,” the teacup replied.

“Nice to meet you, Scott,” Stiles said, leaning forward to take a sip of the tea.

Scott snorted and burst out laughing.

“What?” Stiles asked, panicked as he pulled back and looked at the small cup.

“Nothing,” Scott replied, smothering his laughter. “It just tickles.”

Stiles chuckled, taking another quick sip of tea before setting Scott down on the cart and thanking him and Melissa.

“Aha!” Lydia piped up, “I have just the thing. Simple, classy and perfect for you.”

She shut her doors, hushing the sounds of flurrying fabric before she opened the doors again, the outfit sitting on a hook on the door.

Stiles rose to his feet and stepped forward, running his fingers over the soft fabric.

It was a simple outfit: a white dress shirt, brown pants and a light blue casual jacket. The jacket was slack, designed for comfort yet decorated with silver buttons and fine detail in the stitching around the lapels and the cuffs. The shirt was made of soft cotton, the fabric worn down slightly – no longer stiff or starchy. The pants were like his own only free of patches, tears and stains or mud. On the small shelf in the closet sat a pair of black leather boots – no scuff marks or holes.

“It’s perfect,” he said, taking the outfit off the hook and the boots off the shelf. “Thank you, Lydia.”

“Okay, now give him a little privacy to get changed,” Melissa insisted, wheeling the cart towards the large bedroom door. “And we’ll see you downstairs for dinner soon, love.”

“Thank you,” Stiles called after her.


	5. Chapter 5

“Who does he think he is?” Peter muttered, slumping back against the plush cushion of his throne-like chair and resting his chin on his hand as he stared into the crackling fire. “That boy has messed with the wrong man.”

“Uh-huh,” Chris muttered dismissively, making his way over from the bar to Peter’s side.

“No-one has ever said no to me, never,” Peter growled. “And now, here I sit, dismissed, rejected and publicly humiliated.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s more than I can bear,” Peter cried overdramatically.

“More beer?” Chris asked, offering him one of the pints in his hand.

“Why bother?” Peter muttered, taking the pint nonetheless. “Nothing’s going to change the fact that I’ve been disgraced. By Stiles no less.”

“Who you? Disgraced? Never,” Chris replied. “Pull yourself together, Peter. It’s disturbing to see you so pitiful.”

Peter turned on him, his face twisted with rage at the insult.

“Come on, Peter,” Chris said softly, his husky voice soothing the enraged man. “There is no man in this town as admired as you. You’re everyone’s favourite guy. No-one’s as slick or as quick as you. No-one’s as tough and manly as you. No-one’s more admired or as gorgeously attractive as you. Ask anyone around.”

Peter seemed to cheer up. “As a specimen, yes, I’m intimidating.”

“No-one fights like Peter,” a man from the bar chimed in. “In a wrestling match, no-one bites like Peter. He’s burly and brawny and nothing more than muscle and man.”

“No-one hits like Peter,” a man from the tables called.

“Or matches wits like Peter,” another added.

“In a spitting match nobody spits like Peter,” the old man by the far fireplace said enthusiastically.

Peter’s face twisted into a coy smirk.

“When I was a lad I ate four dozen eggs every morning to help me get large, and now that I’ve grown I eat five dozen eggs so I’m the size of a barge,” Peter bragged, flexing his biceps until the bulging muscles tested the fabric of his sleeves and leaving the women – and a few of the men – in the tavern in awe.

The gathered crowd began to chant in an unceremonious song, “No-one plots like Peter, takes cheap shots like Peter, no-one plans to prosecute harmless crackpots like Peter. He’s endlessly, wildly resourceful, not ever slightly remorseful.”

“Just as long as I get what I want in the end,” Peter howled over the noise.

Chris stepped over to his side, patting his shoulder as he continued, “No-one shoots like Peter, makes those beauties like Peter.”

Peter admired the taxidermy animals in question – bears, stags, a variety of birds and wolves – and the deer heads and antlers that hung on the rough brick walls, their faces lit by the ambient golden glow of the crackling fireplaces.

“Yes,” Peter mused. “They are magnificent.”

Chris picked up Peter’s pint of ale, handing it to Peter.

“Drink up, Peter,” Chris encouraged.

The tavern doors slammed open, silencing the joyous roar of laughter. The cold breeze rolled in as John stumbled down the stairs, panicked and pleading, “Help! Someone, please, help me!”

“John?” Chris called, racing to the man’s side and helping him to his feet.

“Please, I need your help,” John cried, grabbing at fistfuls of Chris’ jacket and looking from him to the other men in the tavern. “He took him! He has him locked in a dungeon!”

“Who?” Chris asked.

“Stiles,” John replied. “He took Stiles. We must go at once, not a minute to lose.”

“Slow down, John,” Peter said, his smooth voice soothing the man. “Who has Stiles locked in a dungeon?”

“A beast!” John cried. “A horrible, monstrous beast.”

Everyone stared at the distressed man, their drinks stilled, breaths halted and eyes wide in disbelief.

They burst out in laughter, smacking their hands and their mugs against the table.

“Was it a big beast?” one man asked.

“Yes,” John replied. “He’s huge.”

“With spooky eyes?” another man prompted.

“As red as blood,” John insisted.

“With a long, ugly snout and cruel fangs,” one man added, howling with laughter.

“Yes!” John cried. “Why are you laughing? That monster has my son! Is there no-one here that believes me? Will someone – _anyone_ – help me?”

“I’ll help you,” Peter replied.

The tavern fell silent, all eyes turning to look at Peter.

Peter set his pint down, stepping over the tables and chairs as he made his way over to John’s side.

“Thank you,” John whispered breathlessly. “Thank you, Peter. Thank you.”

Peter set a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Just lead the way.”


	6. Chapter 6

John lead the way through the treacherous forest, Peter and Chris following in his cautious footfalls among the overgrown mess of weeds, branches and bushes that covered the worn down, muddy path. Their eyes rolled over the plants. Ferns, weeds, low growing bushes and shrubs, watching for any sign of movement.

The usual rich greens and tones of brown, gold and green were darkened by the shadows of night, now a dreary mix of greys and heavy black shadows. Dense foliage hung overhead, enclosing the space and shutting out the little amount of pale moonlight that trickled from the sky.

John hobbled down the overgrown path, spinning in circles to look at the somewhat familiar surroundings as he dragged his feet through the dense undergrowth. He was stammering about a fallen tree and a concealed path, looking about so frantically that he wasn’t watching his surroundings, leaving him to stumble or trip.

Twigs and leaves rustled and broke beneath their feet. Fallen branches snagged at their calves, scratching at the skin beneath their pants.

Among the silence of the forest came the spine-chilling howl of a wolf, followed by another and another.

Their eyes darted about the shadows.

Among the dark shadows, John could make out the fluorescent bleached skeletons of the birch trees, their slender trunks lining the shadows with eye-like rings that watched them from all angles.

“Is anything looking familiar?” Chris asked encouragingly.

“Yes. No. Maybe,” John mumbled.

Peter sighed dramatically.

“There!” John yelped, pointing at a large tree. The bark was twisted, the rough surface rippling like fabric; pristine and untouched. “That’s… That can’t be.”

“What is it?” Chris asked.

“That tree,” John said, taking a step back. “Lightning hit that tree and downed a branch. It was on fire and it blocked the path.”

“It seems fine,” Chris pointed out.

“I know, that’s what’s weird,” John replied.

“John, John, John,” Peter said softly. “You’re a dear friend, but you do tend to get yourself tightly wound and a little… intoxicated beyond logical thought.”

“I haven’t had a drop to drink in years,” John snapped.

“John, did Stiles really get taken by a beast? Or did he leave?” Peter asked.

“My son is being held captive by a beast and you’re suggesting I’m making this up?” John howled.

“It’s late,” Peter said, his voice smooth and manipulative. “We’re all tired. Why don’t you head back to town and Chris and I will continue looking for Stiles?”

“You don’t know where he is,” John argued. “You don’t know how to find him.”

“No, but I do know how to get what I want,” Peter replied.

“What do you mean?” John asked, his heart lurching with fear. “I have nothing to give you.”

A wicked smile lifted Peter’s cheeks. “Oh, but you do. You see, I want Stiles. And I think it’s only fitting that if I spend the night tirelessly, facing vicious wolves and untold horrors while searching for Stiles, then I deserve a hero’s reward.”

“No,” John growled.

“I only want Stiles,” Peter said lowly, stepping forward and setting a threatening hand on John’s shoulder.

“I will never give you my son!” John snapped.

Peter’s face twisted, livid with rage, as his hand balled into a fist and he slammed it into John’s jaw. The bone cracked beneath Peter’s rigid knuckles, blood and saliva sprayed from the man’s mouth as John fell backwards.

He hit the ground with a painful cry and a weak grunt. His head struck a rock concealed by the muddy path, knocking him unconscious while his blood seeped from the wound and pooled on the ground.

“Peter, what have you done?” Chris shouted, running to John’s side and rolling the man onto his pack.

“Tie him to a tree,” Peter instructed, rubbing his blood splattered knuckles.

“You’re insane,” Chris retorted.

“The wolves will have him and there will be no evidence,” Peter said, disturbingly calm. “And as far as everyone else is concerned, Stiles – unable to deal with his father’s alcoholism and pressuring expectations – ran away from home and John – driven made with liquor and denial – ran into the forest before we could stop him, never to be heard from again. If Stiles has disappeared for a night or two – like I expect he has – then, upon his return, he shall have no-one to turn to but me.”

“Peter,” Chris growled. “This is not the way.”

Peter turned on his friend, glaring at Chris as he grabbed John’s limp body and hurled him over to the foot of the tree. He unwound the coil of rope from his belt and tied John to the trunk of the tree.

He spun about on his heels, his icy blue eyes fixed on Chris as he firmly said, “Stiles will be mine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the small delay in the update, I am writing this without much of a plan and had to go back and fit in a few other chapters and rewrite others so that took up a little bit of time.
> 
> Let me know what you think of the fic so far?


	7. Chapter 7

“How are the preparations going?” Boyd asked as he stepped into the kitchen.

“I don’t know what he eats, so I cooked everything,” Melissa told him.

“Boyd…” Erica – the elegant feather duster – paused, looking at Boyd with wide eyes. “There’s something on your back.”

“What?” Boyd asked, wobbling as he spun around in circles. “What is it?”

“Don’t get upset… It’s… It’s a winding handle,” Erica told him.

“What? Get it off! Get it off!” Boyd panicked.

“It won’t come off.” Erica grabbed Boyd, holding him still and gazing lovingly into his eyes as she calmly said, “It’ll be okay. It’s just a new feature, part of the spell, just like how I grow more feathers every time. It’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.”

Boyd reached forward, gently caressing Erica’s cheek.

A loud rumble sounded throughout the castle.

“Oh no,” Erica whimpered, closing her eyes as a weak sigh fell past her lips.

“Another petal,” Boyd whispered, bowing his head.

“We’re going to be okay,” Erica insisted, her voice soft and reassuring.

“I’m scared,” Boyd confessed.

“I know,” Isaac said quietly, making his way over to his friends’ side. “But you’re not alone. You never will be. And even if we can’t break this curse, we’ll be together until the end. I promise.”

Boyd nodded.

The dining room door slammed open and heavy footsteps stormed into the room.

There was a moment of silence before the beast bellowed, “Get in here!”

Boyd, Erica, Isaac and Melissa all obeyed.

The best gestured to the second set of plates and cutlery set up on the table.

“What is the meaning of this?” he growled.

“The boy lost his home, his father and his freedom all in one day, the lest you could do is offer him a bed and a meal,” Melissa replied, her voice confident and her composure unwavering.

“He’s a prisoner,” the beast snapped.

“He may also be our only chance to break this spell,” Melissa countered. “Maybe you won’t fall in love with him, nor him with you, but the least you could do is have some dignity and humanity in our final hours. The rose is wilting. We have weeks, if not days, to live. Do you want to die alone?”

The beast froze, shocked by the woman’s bravado.

“Admit it,” Melissa insisted. “He’s at the very least piqued your curiosity.”

“What does it matter? Even if he has, it’s no use,” the beast growled. “Who could ever like me? I mean, look at me.”

“And look at us,” Melissa muttered. “Yet we showed a little compassion and he opened up to us.”

The beast huffed.

“You were once a good man,” Melissa continued. “Your physical appearance doesn’t change that. Yes, you were done wrong by, but that does not give you the excuse to do wrong to the boy. He is not to blame here; he has done nothing to you.”

There was a moment of quiet as the beast hung his head shamefully.

“What do I do?” he asked.

“Straighten up,” Melissa instructed. “Act like a gentleman. Be kind, considerate, and sincere.”

“Impress him with your wit and charisma,” Isaac added.

“Compliment him,” Boyd offered.

Melissa shushed them, “Above all else: control your temper.”

The beast nodded.

“Now,” Melissa said calmly. “Go upstairs and _ask_ him to dinner.”

The beast let out a heavy sigh and turned to leave, the billowing fabric of his cape flaring out and whipping the air with his motions. His footsteps where heavy as his wolf-like feet thumped the ground and he climbed the east tower.

He knocked at the door to Stiles room and said, “Dinner is read if you would care to join me.”

“I’m not hungry,” the boy called back.

The best winced, fighting back his anger.

“You really should eat,” he insisted.

“I said I’m not hungry,” Stiles shouted from the other side of the door.

He turned and glared at Melissa.

“Why is he being difficult?” he hissed.

“He’s been through a lot today,” Melissa reminded him. “Please be considerate and gentle.”

The beast drew in a deep breath, calming himself. His composure returned as eh knocked at the door again and called, “Stiles, would you be so kind as to join me for dinner? Please.”

“No, thank you,” Stiles politely replied.

“Then starve!” the beast howled, livid with rage.

He turned to the others and snapped, “If he doesn’t eat with me, he doesn’t eat at all!”

Without another word, he stormed off on hesitating at the bottom of the stairs when he heard Boyd exhale heavily and mutter, defeated and helplessly, “What were we thinking? We’ll never be human again.”

“That’s enough, you lot,” Melissa scolded. “I’m not giving up on the chance to hear my son’s laughter as his footsteps as he runs through these halls once more.”

The beast sighed heavily, his shoulders falling forward as he sulkily dragged his feet up the stairs to the west wing.

He shoved open the door to his secluded room and stepped inside.

The room was dark and dusty, untouched by anyone but himself in the years since the curse began.

He stepped around the fallen chandelier and the broken stairwell that lead to the higher level of the room. The floor was covered in ash and debris from the crumbling tower. In the dark shadows that lined the room, there were old portraits that hung on the walls, the painted canvass burnt and torn.

The only thing lift in pristine condition was the small red rose that sat beneath the etched glass case by the window, the enchanted rose.

The beast walked over to the table and picked up the magic mirror that sat atop the table. He ran his fingers over the etchings before looking at his own reflection.

His eyes glimmered with pain.

How could he have so easily forgotten that he wasn’t the only one this curse effected? How could he have forgotten that the others were suffering too?

He lifted the mirror higher and, in his gruff voice, said, “Show me the boy.”

His reflection distorted and shifted as the mirror opened to a window, showing the image of Stiles, curled up in the corner of his room, his knees pulled up to his chest and his head hanging forward.

“I know he has a bit of a temperament,” Lydia said softly. “But underneath all that matted fur he’s not such a bad fellow. He’s just… he’s lost a part of himself over time, part of his humanity and he just needs someone to remind him it’s there.”

“Why should I have to do that?” Stiles shouted, tears streaming down his face. “Why should I give him a chance when he never gave me or my father one?”

The best sighed, setting down the mirror.

“Why am I fooling myself?” he mused. “He’ll never see me as anything more than a monster.”

He glanced at the rose, his talons tapping against the glass as he gently caressed it.

“Then again, I’ve always been a monster,” he whispered.

He watched as another petal fell away from the bud, wilting and shrivelling as it fell before hitting the table top as nothing more than an ashy husk.

“How do I do this?” he whimpered, crying out helplessly to anyone who could hear him. “How do I ask for the world’s forgiveness? How do I stop being a monster?”


	8. Chapter 8

Stiles’ stomach cramped and growled.

He hadn’t lied: he wasn’t hungry when he was invited to dinner; he was feeling so nauseous about being uprooted and trapped in a castle with a beast that he couldn’t stomach the thought of eating. But that was hours ago, and now he was starving.

A knock at the door startled him. He bolted upright and readied himself for a fight.

“It’s only me, darling,” Melissa called as she gently pushed the door open. “I just came to see how you are.”

“To be honest, I’m a little hungry,” Stiles admitted. “But I’m not allowed to eat, so I’ll just have to bear it.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Melissa scoffed. “The kitchen is always open for you, darling.”

“But…” Stiles started.

“Don’t believe what the master says,” Melissa said softly. “He’s just a little grumpy.”

“You didn’t really believe the whole ‘If he doesn’t eat with me, he doesn’t eat at all’ act, did you?” Scott asked, adding his own dramatic mimicry of the beast.

Stiles snorted as he held back his laughter.

“Come downstairs, dear,” Melissa encouraged. “We’ll cook up something for you to eat.”

“Really, you don’t have to go to all that trouble,” Stiles said hastily. “I’m fine eating a crust of bed and a glass of water.”

“No,” Melissa objected. “You’re not a prisoner, you’re our guest. A growing boy like you needs a proper, filling dinner.”

Without another word, Melissa pushed the cart forward and lead the way out of Stiles’ room before the boy could protest.

“Thank you,” Stiles whispered, following Melissa out of the room and down the staircase.

The soft soles of his new leather boots padded down the smooth marble stairs as they descended and made their way to the ground level, crossing the foyer and stepping into the large dining room.

“Wow,” Stiles gasped, staring at the lavish room.

The walls were decorated with thick velvet curtains and gorgeous portraits. The table stretched the distance of the room, made of rich dark oak, and – even when it wasn’t dressed or decorated with a cloth, bouquets of flowers, cutlery and candles – was impressive.

“Have a seat, darling,” Melissa encouraged.

Stiles sat down in the large chair at the far end of the table.

The lights dimmed and Isaac clambered onto the table, standing proud before Stiles as he began his introduction, “Bonjour monsieur, it is with deepest pride and greatest pleasure that we welcome you tonight.”

Stiles smiled, chuckling lightly as he watched Isaac put on an elaborate show.

“And now,” Isaac continued. “We invite you to relax, let up pull up a chair, as the dining room proudly presents: your dinner.”

Stiles laughed quietly.

Carts full of food rolled out of the kitchen and into the dining room. Within seconds, the dining table was covered in gleaming ceramic plates with silver patterns along the rims full of food: a large banquet of stews, roasts, pasta, various finger-foods, fresh fruits and vegetables, juices, crystal-like clear water in large decanters, and sweet delicacies.

The rich scents filled his nose, making his mouth salivate and his stomachs growl louder than before.

Isaac began to serve Stiles, filling his plate thin slivers of succulent meat, spoonfuls of soup into small bowls, large spoonfuls of pasta and sauce, and fresh bread rolls with soft, warm, white flesh.

Stiles ate them gratefully, amazed at the flavours and richness of the foods he had never heard of before: beef ragout, cheese soufflé, fresh fruity pies and pudding en flambe.

It was completely different to the flavourless soups, bread rolls, chicken, fish and fruit.

There was such a selection of dishes that Stiles had never seen before and some he had only ever read about that he couldn’t decide which to eat.

He ate a bit of everything, tasting the rich flavours of the finely prepared dishes, until he could eat no more.

“Thank you,” Stiles said gratefully.

“How do you feel now, sweetie?” Melissa asked.

“Honestly, a little tired,” Stiles confessed.

“I don’t blame you,” Melissa said softly. “You’ve had a big day. Why don’t you head upstairs and off to bed?”

“That sounds lovely,” Stiles whispered. “Are you sure you don’t need a hand cleaning up?”

“We’ll be alright,” Melissa assured him, pushing the cart forward so she could escort Stiles to the stairs.

Stiles rose from his seat and made his way into the foyer, thanking Melissa again before he began to walk up the marble staircase. He turned and walked towards the east wing, farewelling Melissa and bidding her a good night. He crept out of sight and waited until she wheeled the cart back into the dining room. Alone and out of sight he scurried back down the stairs and sprinted up the staircase leading to the west wing.

A large archway stood at the end of the long, dark hallway like the gate to insanity. Stiles stood beneath the arched frame, toes lined up behind the border that divided the hallway and the smooth grey marble staircase.

Curiosity won him over.

He stepped into the seemingly tunnelling hallway, the bowing black walls threatening to collapse in on him. He cautiously crept across upturned floorboards and fallen rubble, fearful of the dark depths which dwelled beneath them—lurking monsters waiting for the perfect opportunity to attack.

He stepped out of the dark hallway and found himself standing before a large door, the wood scratched and rotting. He carefully pushed it open, the door rattling on its rusted hinges as he sneakily stepped inside.

The room was dark and dusty, furniture broken and scattered around the room. In the centre of the room sat a fallen chandelier, the glass shattered and scattered across the floor. Despite its poor condition, a few of the bulbs were still working, the dull yellow glow lighting the surroundings. Nearby, the stairwell that lead to the higher level of the room was broken, the railing hanging uselessly and the wooden slats withered, fallen and broken. The floor was covered in ash and debris from the crumbling tower. In the dark shadows that lined the room, there were old portraits that hung on the walls, the painted canvass burnt and torn.

Stiles stepped over to the wall, running his hand across one of the canvases. It was a family portrait: a father, a mother, two daughters and a son. Fire had charred the canvas over the mother and the sisters but the face of the father and the son were slashed, the whole family destroyed.

Stiles gently brushed his fingers across the painted canvas, pulling together the torn strips to reveal the face of a gorgeous young man.

His olive skin was translucent and his face was stern and handsome. His hair was dark and thick, cropped short at the base of his skull and across his strong jaw, the soft whiskers casting a shadow across his jaw and framing his sharp cheekbones. His wide-set eyes were pale beneath his dark brows, seeming to focus on him as the colour of his irises shifted in the light; from hazel to green, to a shade of light blue – clear, bright and focused.

Stiles stood still for a moment, staring into those eyes.

Something about the sparkling depths seemed so familiar, but it escaped him.

He sighed and step back, his eyes drifting to the bright red bud of that sat beneath the etched glass bell jar in the open space before the large bay windows.

He stepped over to the table, his eyes transfixed on the crimson red rose.

The frosted glass was engraved with smooth lines that were shaped like vines and flowers: lilies, roses and wolfsbane. He watched as the velvety soft petals glittered.

A large shadow fell over Stiles.

“Why did you come here?” the beast howled.

Stiles yelped, spinning around and bumping the table. He caught it before it toppled, steadying it with his trembling hands as he stepped aside and apologised profusely, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“You were told never to come here!”

“I didn’t mean any harm,” Stiles whimpered, stumbling backwards.

The beast looked at the rose, his eyes glowing red as he made sure it was where he left it. He turned on Stiles and roared, “Do you have any idea what you could have done?! Get out!”

Stiles flinched, curling up in a ball as the beast began to hurl furniture around the room.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles cried, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Get out!” the beast howled.

Stiles scrambled to his feet, his boots slipping on the ashy floor as he stumbled and ran out of the room. He sprinted back down the hallway and down the stairs. He shoved open the front door and ran into the cold air, the bitter breeze stinging his cheeks as he hurried down the stairs and grabbed Phillipe’s reins. He climbed onto the horse, tugged the reins and raced off on the horse.

Phillipe’s hooved thumped the ground with a thundering beat as he tore up clumps of earth and cantered through the maze of hedges.  They ran past the gate and into the darkness of the woods.

Jagged branches and disfigured shrubs reached out for them, scratching at Stiles’ legs and Phillipe’s hooves.

Stiles’ chest ached as his heart thumped against his ribs, a chill running down his spine as his body shuddered with sobs.

Among the quiet of the forest came the gut-wrenching howl of a wolf followed by the replies of the pack.

There was a series of low growls as the pack emerged, snapping and snarling as they encircled Phillipe.

Phillipe pulled to a halt, tossing Stiles from his saddle.

The boy hit the ground with a painful thud.

The wolves began to circle around him.

He met the gaze of the alpha. Its fur was snowy white, tarnished by patches of dirt and parted to reveal the scars that marred its face. Its shackles rose and its snout pulled back into a vicious snarl as it stared Stiles down. It snapped, exposing the jagged ivory fangs.

Stiles grabbed a nearby branch, snapping it off and brandishing it like a bat.

The wolves snapped and growled, each inching forward but waiting back hesitantly.

“Come on!” Stiles shouted.

The alpha barked and one of the wolves by his side leapt forward, locking its jaws around the branch and pulling it from Stiles’ hands.

Stiles stumbled slightly, quickly regaining his footing as he looked around at the wolves.

“Well, come on then!” he shouted again. “I’m not afraid of you. I’ll fight you all off if I must. Come on!”

The alpha hunched over, baring its fangs. It leapt forward.

Stiles raised his arms to guard himself.

A dark shadow passed over him, snatching the wolf out of the air.

The alpha found themselves grabbed by the beast and tossed aside. They collided with the thick trunk of a tree. The bark scratched at their soft pelt, leaving them stumbling and whimpering as they rose to their feet. They let loose a feral snarl and leapt forwards again.

The beast dodged the attack.

The alpha hit the ground and rolled, quickly returning to their feet as they sprinted towards the beast again.

The beast braced himself and took the blow, pushing back against the wolf will all his might.

Sharp nails collided with flesh, spilling blood across the forest floor.

The beast knocked the alpha’s feet out from beneath them, pinning them down against the ground.

The rest of the pack pounced on him, biting into his flesh and tearing at his limbs.

The beast thrashed about, tearing the wolves off his body and hurling them aside.

The alpha wriggled about beneath the beast, but the beast pushed him further back against the uneven earth.

The beast leant in closer, face hovering above the alpha as his howl split the air.

The alpha fell still, submitting to the beast’s might.

The beast sat back, letting the alpha run free. The pack whimpered and retreated into the shadows of the forest.

The deep crimson of the beast’s eyes faded as he turned to look at Stiles, his irises a glittering aventurine and full of worry. His body weakened and he collapsed in the snow.

“Phillipe!” Stiles called.

The horse came cantering into the small clearing. He stopped for a second before Stiles. Stiles grabbed the reins and readied himself to mount the saddle when he hesitated.

He glanced over his shoulder at the beast.

His large figure laid still on the forest floor, shuddering slightly in the cold and moaning as the blood seeped from his wounds and stained the blanket of snow.

Stiles bit into his lip.

He couldn’t leave him there.

What if the wolves came back to claim their kill?

Stiles cursed under his breath and cautiously stepped over to the beast’s side.

His shoulders rose and fell with heavy breaths.

Stiles knelt beside him, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder as he whispered, “I can help you, but I can’t do this alone. You need to get up on your feet.”

The beast made an attempt, grabbing at nearby rocks and fallen trees while Stiles did everything he could to help him to his feet. Stiles helped him manoeuvre himself up onto Phillipe’s saddle. Stiles took the reins and began to walk the stallion back through the dark woods and towards the cast iron gates of the castle.


	9. Chapter 9

Swirls of brown and red seeped through the cotton dressing. The smell clotting into his nostrils again, the thick scent of iron; of blood.

Stiles swallowed hard against the condensed saliva and rising bile that blocked his throat. He held his breath, blood pulsating in his ears and deafening him as he slowly pulled the dressing away with trembling fingers.

He froze, feeling his muscles tense as fear and nausea worked its way through his body. He failed to draw his eyes away from the ring of puncture marks which coiled around the beast’s limbs.

Melissa wheeled the cart forward, pouring hot water into a bowl and offering Stiles a rag.

Stiles thanked her, dipping the rag into the water and gently patting the bloody wounds.

“Ow!” the beast bellowed, snapping at Stiles.

The boy reared back just in time to avoid the beast’s outburst.

“That hurts!” the beast cried.

“If you hold still, it won’t hurt as much!” Stiles retorted.

Everyone looked at the boy in shock.

“Well if you hadn’t run away, this wouldn’t have happened!” the beast argued.

“If you hadn’t frightened me and yelled at me, I wouldn’t have run away!” Stiles shouted.

“You shouldn’t have gone into the west wing!”

“You should control your temper!”

The beast opened his mouth to argue but silenced himself.

Stiles drew in a deep breath and picked up the rag again.

“Now, hold still,” Stiles said softly. “This might hurt a little.”

The beast winced as Stiles dabbed at the wound and dressed it in a clean bandage.

“Thank you,” Stiles whispered.

The beast opened his eyes, looking at the boy in confusion and surprise.

“For saving my life,” Stiles reiterated. “Thank you.”

“And thank you,” the beast replied quietly. “For saving mine… and I’m sorry for how I’ve treated you.”

Stiles looked up at the beast, his amber eyes glittering in the golden glow of the crackling fire.

The beast met his gaze.

Stiles couldn’t look away. He knew those eyes: colour of his irises shifted in the light; from hazel to green, to a shade of light blue – clear, bright and focused.

“What happened to you?” Stiles asked, his voice a hushed whisper.

The beast bowed his head.

“I was once a happy boy,” he muttered. “I had a family who loved me and showered me with gifts, but I didn’t care for material things; my parents and my sisters were my whole world. They were until the day my uncle got jealous. He wanted the throne to himself and didn’t appreciate my mother marrying and producing heirs thus prolonging his chance at the throne. He killed my father, locked the rest of us in a room and set fire to the castle.”

His voice failed him for a moment and Stiles could tell he was fighting back tears.

The beast continued, “My older sister and I escaped, running into our uncle’s open arms because we thought we could trust him. He killed my sister and took the throne. He raised me to be like him: twisted and corrupted until I thought I was incapable of loving anyone. Then I turned sixteen and could claim the throne as was my right. My uncle ran away, fearing I might get revenge for him killing my family and knowing that he had left someone as despicable as he was sitting on the throne.”

Stiles laid his hand atop of the beast’s.

“One winter’s night, a few years ago, an old beggar woman came to the castle and offered me a single rose in return for shelter from the bitter cold and raging storm,” the beast continued. “I made the wrong decision and turned her away. She was an enchantress, a powerful one. I tried to apologise and beg for forgiveness, but it was too late; she had seen that there was no love in my heart, she had seen the monster my uncle had turned me into.”

He paused, looking down at his monstrous body and around at the others.

“She cursed us, turning us into what we are today. And we are to stay this way until the last petal of that rose falls. Then, I shall remain a beast and my friends shall be nothing more than antiques and trinkets,” the beast said solemnly.

“There must be something we can do,” Stiles said, his heart aching as he looked between the faces of despair.

“There is nothing we can do,” the beast lied.

“It’s not fair,” Stiles protested. “That’s not who you are. You are not who your uncle made you, you proved that tonight. You’re not a monster, you’re…”

“Broken,” the beast offered.

“Yes,” Stiles whispered. “But you’re not the only one. We all have our secrets and our scars. They change us, but they don’t make us.”

The beast bowed his head.

“Tell me your name,” Stiles pleaded.

The beast’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Why?”

“Because I can’t go calling you ‘beast’ or ‘master’ all the time now, can I?” Stiles pointed out.

“Derek,” he whispered. “My name was… _is_ Derek.”

“Derek,” Stiles repeated. “That’s a nice name.”


	10. Chapter 10

_Our story didn’t have the best beginning; it started off like some kind of twisted fairy tale, tragedy or a story you know won’t end well. But, after the events of that night, things seemed to change._

_It took time but wounds began to heal and our hearts began to open._

_It’s true he was mean and course and unrefined, but now he’s dear and kind. He would shudder under my careful touch but he would let me guide his actions and open his eyes to wondrous things: the delicate touch of a bird as they peck seeds from the palm of your hand or the feeling of the steady heartbeat of a stallion or the soft hairs of their coat as you rest your hand on their chest._

_We spent many nights at the table, staring each other down from the far ends of the room. Many times, I would flinch when Derek drank his soup like an animal, leaving me to face the sight of tomato puree dripping from his furry face like blood from the jaws of a predator. We learnt to bend the rules – picking up the soup balls and sipping at them like a saucer rather than trying tirelessly to manoeuvre cutlery – and we slowly grew closer until finally we sat side by side at the diner table._

_For the days that followed that night, Derek seemed so unsure of himself that I wondered why I never saw that part of him before._

_Eventually, people would come to say that beauty killed the beast that night, and I guess that could be true because after that night the beast no longer existed and in his place stood a broken man under a horrid curse._

 

 “Can I look now?” Stiles asked.

“Not yet,” Derek replied.

“Your hands are tickling my face,” Stiles chuckled. “Please, can I look?”

“Not yet,” Derek repeated, unable to hide the joy in his voice as he carefully guided Stiles forward. He opened a large door and guided Stiles inside. “Stay here and keep your eyes closed, okay?”

Stiles nodded, squinting his eyes shut as Derek removed his hands and walked further into the room.

There was a flurry of fabric as Derek pulled back the curtains, the sudden burst of light making Stiles flinch and squeeze his eyes shut tighter.

“Alright,” Derek said. “Open your eyes.”

Stiles did as instructed, his breath catching in his throat as his eyes fell upon the wondrous sight before him. The walls were white and lined with shelves full of books, the covers pristine and well loved.

“This is incredible,” Stiles whispered, turning around in circles as he looked at the large room, the ladders climbing up to mezzanines and reading corners. “I’ve never seen this many books in my life. Have you read all of these?”

“Not all of them,” Derek confessed. “But most of them. Do you like it?”

“I love it,” Stiles replied, unable to stop smiling.

“Then it’s yours.”

“What?” Stiles asked, gobsmacked.

“The library,” Derek said softly. “It’s all yours.”

A delighted gasp fell from Stiles’ lips.

“Is there a book in particular you would like to read?” Derek asked. “I’m sure I could help you find it somewhere.”

Stiles thought about it. “ _The Nightingale_.”

Derek searched the shelves, picking out the small, leather-bound book and passing it to Stiles.

“I haven’t read that one,” Derek confessed. “What is it about?”

“It’s the tale of an Emperor who prefers the tinkling of a bejewelled mechanical bird to the song of a real nightingale. It’s said that when the Emperor is near death, the nightingale's song restores his health,” Stiles explained.

“That sounds fantastic,” Derek replied, genuinely interested. “Tell me more.”

“One day, the Emperor’s mechanical bird breaks and a farmer brings him a real nightingale, one that had delighted his fields many time with her sweet songs,” Stiles continued. “The nightingale is put in a golden cage, given the finest seeds and asked to sing for the Emperor. At first the nightingale is delighted, but she soon realises she’s caged and wants to be free. She cannot force herself to sing, but she agrees that if the Emperor is to release her, she would return every day and sing him to good health.”

“And does he?” Derek asked, enthralled with the boy’s retelling.

“Not for a while, but eventually he does set the nightingale free,” Stiles assured him.

“And does she return to sing?”

“Yes,” Stiles whispered. “Every day. Not because she’s compelled to, but because she wants to.”

“That’s a wonderful story,” Derek whispered, looking down at the book in Stiles’ hands.

“What’s yours?” Stiles asked.

Derek looked up at him, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Pardon?”

“What’s your favourite book?” Stiles repeated.

“I’ll show you,” Derek said, leading Stiles over to a nearby table.

Atop the table sat a book with glittering pages, open to a spread that looked like the swirling depths of blue and black of a starry night.

“It can take you anywhere you wish,” Derek explained.

“Anywhere?” Stiles asked.

“You just have to imagine that place in your mind and it’ll take you there,” Derek whispered. “Give it a try.”

Derek took Stiles’ slender hand in his paw, pressing it to the page.

Stiles shut his eyes and thought.

When he blinked his eyes open again, finding that he was no longer in the library, but instead was surrounded by somewhat-familiar withered wooden walls.

The room was small, verging claustrophobic. The thin wooden planks that lined walls bowed with age, the rough grains filled with shadows and the faintest scent of pine – tainted and dominated by the bitter scent of the coal. Two tiny beds were crammed side by side with just enough room to slide between them and over to the small, rotting cupboard that sat beside the door. On the far wall, there was a small fireplace and a table which had toppled over in a struggle.

Everything was coated in dust, a home long forgotten.

“Where are we?” Derek asked.

“Paris,” Stiles muttered.

“I love Paris,” Derek remarked, looking out the cloudy glass window.

The was a loud rush of wind as a dark shadow passed by the window.

Stiles flinched, looking at the glass as another shadow passed with a loud rumble.

A soft sigh fell from his lips followed by a quiet chuckle.

“I forgot it was a windmill,” Stiles remarked.

“You know this place?” Derek asked.

“Yeah,” Stiles whispered, looking around the small space. “This where I was born and raised.”

Stiles paused, moving over to one of the beds and picking up the small, wilted rose that sat in the cup. His lips trembled as he sat down on the bed.

Derek rushed to his side, his voice full of concern. “What’s wrong?”

Stiles felt the warm tear caress his pale cheek. He quickly brushed it away and blinked back the others, looking down at the rose.

“This is where my mother died,” Stiles rasped. “My dad and I don’t talk about her anymore; it hurts him too much to talk about the past or about my mother.”

“What happened to her?” Derek whispered, looking Stiles in the eye.

“She was sick,” Stiles replied. “In her mind. The doctors couldn’t help her. She stated to go insane so they took her to an asylum and told my father to take me as far away from here as we could go.”

“Why did you have to leave?” Derek asked, confused.

“’For my own safety’,” Stiles quoted.

“I don’t understand,” Derek admitted.

Stiles glanced into the corner of the room where a small washtub sat. His dark eyes filled with pain as he said, “She tried to kill me.”

Derek flinched, his eyes wide with shock and his lips agape as if words failed him.

“It wasn’t her fault,” Stiles said, fighting back tears. “She was sick. She didn’t know what she was doing. But no-one listened to me.”

Stiles set the wilted rose down.

“I want to go back,” Stiles said pleadingly.

“Okay,” Derek whispered, taking Stiles’ hand and drawing them back into the library.

Stiles looked down at the leather-bound copy of _The Nightingale_ that he had set down on the table before they left.

“She’d read me stories,” Stiles muttered.

“Stiles,” Derek started slowly, his deep voice soft and quiet. “I’m so sorry.”

“We didn’t have much,” Stiles whispered. “But we had each other, and that was all we needed.”


	11. Chapter 11

Dawn broke over the land, streaking the sky with magnificent splashed of oranges, reds and purples. The warm light seeped in through the broken foliage, lighting the muddy path and warming the brisk air.

John hadn’t slept.

His eyes felt swollen and his limbs were heavy. He slumped forward against the restraint of the ropes, his body swaying weakly.

He wished he had slept but he knew it would have been impossible. He knew his abilities were limited: even if he could get free, he barely had the strength to fight someone nor did he have the energy to run away if he were to be confronted. His sensory input was weakened – meaning anyone or anything could sneak up on him and he’d never hear their footsteps among the fallen leaves and scattered twigs. Adrenaline hadn’t kicked in yet and he was struggling to blink his eyes open.

His throat burnt and his mouth was as dry and rough as sandpaper. His lips were chapped and splitting, the copper taste of blood seeping into his mouth. No matter how many times he ran his tongue across them, it didn’t help.

“Stiles,” he rasped. “Please… someone… find my son.”

There was no-one around to hear him.

Weak tears fell down his weary cheeks as he sobbed his son’s name over and over again.

Worn leather boots trudged through the mud and over to John’s side.

His head lolled about weakly as he looked up at the newcomer.

She was a young lady, bridging seventeen or eighteen, with a golden wave of curls that cascaded down her back, bouncing off her translucent skin. Her eyes sparkled like sapphires despite the fact that her clothes were torn to rags and her skin was smeared with mud.

She seemed familiar, the beggar woman who lived on the outskirts of town.

“Katherine,” John whispered.

The woman reached forward, untied the ropes and helped John to his feet. She lifted his arm over her shoulders and guided him towards a small branching path that lead to a hut in the clearing of the forest.

She carefully lowered him onto the pile of rags that made a bed, leaving him for a moment to retrieve a shallow bowl of water. She brought it over to John and brought the rim of the bowl to his lips, tipping it up so that the parched man could sip at it.

“Thank you,” John whispered.

“You should rest,” Kate said softly, helping John lay down.

“My son… The beast,” John started.

“I know,” Kate replied. “But there’s nothing we can do when you’re in this state. Rest.”

John nodded and laid back among the pile of rags, his heavy eyes falling shut.


	12. Chapter 12

Stiles sat at the end of the large dining room table, his back warmed by the glow of the crackling fire behind him and empty dishes that had been plated up with delicious food sitting before him. Derek sat beside him, his head rested on his hand as he stared lovingly at Stiles, listening to every word the boy said as he read from the book before him.

“For never was there such woe as that of Juliet and Romeo,” Stiles finished, closing the book and setting it down.

“Could you read it again?” Derek whispered, his aventurine eyes sparkling in the light of the fire as he stared at Stiles.

“How about a different one?” Stiles suggested. “We have a whole library to choose from.”

Stiles reached over to the large stack of books that he had pulled off the shelves earlier, picking up the next one and running his fingers over the embezzled cover.

Melissa poured them each another glass of tea and Isaac served desert.

Stiles opened the book and began to read aloud, the words leading them on a wondrous adventure into a world of fantasy.

Occasionally, Stiles would forget to eat because he was so enraptured by a story, so the staff would bring his meals up to the library and make sure he ate something.

But more often than not, Stiles would fall asleep in his favourite reading nook, nestled into the soft cushions that were laid against the small walls of the bay windows.

That was how Derek found Stiles that day, and like every time before, he couldn’t help but smile at the sight of the boy curled up and so at peace.

He reached forward and carefully took the book from Stiles’ hands, sliding a bookmark into place before setting it aside. He lifted Stiles into his arms and carefully carried him upstairs to bed, laying him beneath the covers and sitting with him for a moment. He carefully reached forward and brushed aside the stray strands of Stiles’ unkempt hair that had fallen around the young man’s face.

Derek sighed.

There was a loud rumble as bricks fell away from the tower walls and the castle shook on its foundation.

Derek winced, feeling his body change.

He felt a piece of his humanity slip away as he grew closer to being nothing more than a beast.

He rose from the edge of the bed and stumbled out into the hallway, closing the door behind himself and shutting Stiles away in the bedroom where he would be safe.

Derek staggered backwards and slumped against the wall, sliding down to the floor. He brought his knees to his chest and buried his face in his hands.

There were two petals left now.

He was losing time but there were two things he knew he must do: save everyone in the household and let Stiles go; he couldn’t let anyone else suffer because of him.


	13. Chapter 13

“Am I a genius or am I a genius?” Peter said boastfully, repeating the conversation Chris had hear several times over the past two weeks. “With John out of the way, there’s no-one to tell Stiles he can’t marry me. In fact, Stiles will come crawling to me, wanting a shoulder to cry on.”

Chris sighed, electing to ignore the man rather than play into his power fantasy.

“Why Stiles?” Chris eventually asked.

Peter turned to look at him. “What?”

“Why Stiles?” Chris repeated. “Why do you want what you know you’ll never have instead of being content with what you do have?”

“What do I have?” Peter asked, sounding like an upset child.

“Me,” Chris replied.

“You?” Peter scoffed.

“Yes, me. You’ve always had me, so why aren’t I enough?”

“I…” Peter stopped himself, taking a moment to think. “I… uh…”

“Never mind,” Chris muttered, walking on towards the tavern.

Peter shoved open the door to the tavern and stepped inside, his words falling short and his voice failing him as his eyes fell upon the figure seated at one of the tables.

“John,” Peter greeted with a fake smile.

John looked unimpressed.

He looked much healthier than he had when they left him, the dark shadows under his eyes had dissipated and his skin was clean. He was well dressed, his thinning hair neatly groomed and his bright blue eyes focused on Peter.

“Is it true?” one of the men sitting nearby asked. “Did you really leave John for the wolves?”

“Is that what he told you?” Peter replied, trying to laugh it off. “John, you are not well.”

“I’m thinking more clearly than I have in years,” John snapped back.

“No, you’re clearly not,” Peter tried to coerce him. “Why would I ever leave you tied to a tree to be ravished by wolves, my friend?”

“I never specified you tied me to a tree,” John pointed out.

Peter hesitated for a moment before hastily replying, “It was implied.”

“Peter,” another man called. “Why would you do such a thing?”

“I wouldn’t,” Peter argued before more firmly adding, “I didn’t.”

Everyone around him looked at Peter in disbelief.

Peter turned to look at John and said softly, “John, I know you’re upset that Stiles ran away from home, but it’s undignified to throw around accusations.”

“My son didn’t run away from home,” John argued. “He was taken prisoner by a beast and when you and I went to find him, you hit me over the head, tied me to a tree and left me for dead.”

“Do you have anyone else who can back up such a crazy story?” Peter challenged. “Because, as I recall, we went to look for this beast but the path you said lead to the castle was gone. You went berserk and ran away into the forest.”

“I can vouch for him,” a woman called from among the crowd.

The sea of people parted to show the young woman standing by the fireplace.

“Katherine?” Chris gasped.

“The hag?” Peter roared with laughter. “You asked a hag to lie on your behalf?”

“It’s not a lie,” John howled.

“Do you have anyone _reliable_ to back up your story?” Peter reiterated.

John looked over Peter’s shoulder. “Chris.”

Peter smirked and span around. He looked at Chris with a soft gaze as he purred, “Chris… Dear Chris, can you give some clarity to this situation?”

Chris glanced over at his sister, then to his friend before he finally met Peter’s gaze, losing himself in the shimmering depths. He felt his heart ache as he said, “Everything John has said is a lie.”

“Chris!” John cried, leaping from his seat.

“I’m sorry,” Chris whispered.

“John,” Peter interrupted, stepping over to the man’s side and resting his hands on John’s broad shoulders. “It’s all going to be okay. We can get you some help, the help you need.”

“I don’t need anything from you,” John hissed, slapping aside Peter’s hands and storming towards the tavern doors.

They swung open before he could reach them, two orderlies from the asylum stepping into the building and seizing John’s arms.

John thrashed about in their hold, desperately trying to break free.

“It’s for the best, John,” Peter called smugly.

“Chris!” John shouted, tears of fear streaking his face as he looked at his friend. “Tell them the truth! Tell them the truth, Chris!”

Chris bowed his head and uttered under his breath, “I’m sorry.”


	14. Chapter 14

“I can’t do this,” Derek panicked.

“Yes, you can,” Boyd reassured him. “You asked him, remember.”

“I didn’t think he’d say yes,” Derek replied, tugging at the hem of his jacket.

“It’ll be fine,” Erica said soothingly. “Just go downstairs, take him in your arms and dance the night away. This may be your last chance to do that.”

Derek sighed and bowed his head.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I dragged you all into this.”

Erica smiled sweetly. “It was one hell of a ride.”

Derek nodded. He made his way towards the door and stepped out onto the marble landing.

His eyes drifted across the space to where Stiles stood, dressed a gorgeous yellowish-gold suit, the jacket made of a thick fabric that had a detailed gold vine-like pattern sewn into it. The collar of his jacket, tabs of his shirt collar and the rounded knot of his silk gold tie were all bedazzled with delicate golden beads. The tie was pinned in place by a small golden pin. He wore a matching vest that was fitted to his slender waist and sat nicely atop of the multiple layers of fabric. The outfit was completed by the thin golden circlet that sat atop his head, the frail golden leaves disturbing his tousled chestnut-brown hair.

Stiles smiled, his cheeks dipping into small dimples and his amber eyes sparkling.

Derek stood still, stunned and breathless at the sight of the young man.

They began to descend the staircase, meeting halfway. Derek offered Stiles his hand and the young man took it, letting Derek guide him down the staircase and into the large, lavish ballroom.

Derek let go of Stiles’ hand, turning to face him and bowing courteously.

Stiles returned the bow before straightening his back and stepping into Derek’s hold.

Behind them, a soft melody began to play: violins, piano, and the gentle tones of Melissa’s voice as she sang,

                            “ _Tale as old as time,_

_True as it can be._

_Barely even friends,_

_Then somebody bends unexpectedly._

_Just a little change,_

_Small to say the least._

_Both a little scared,_

_Neither one prepared._

_Beauty and the beast.”_

Derek cautiously laid his hand on Stiles’ hip, taking his other hand in his own paw as they began to sway back and forth. It had been years since he danced, but it all seemed to return to him; muscle memory guiding his feet.

They began to sway to the beat, moving back and forth across the dancefloor.

Derek spun Stiles around, the fabric of their jackets billowing and swirling around their bodies as they moved with grace.

_“Ever just the same,_

_Ever a surprise._

_Ever as before, ever just as sure,_

_As the sun will rise._

_Tale as old as time,_

_Tune as old as song._

_Bittersweet and strange,_

_Finding you can change, learning you were wrong.”_

Derek spun Stiles around, gently tugging at the younger man’s arm and pulling him back into his hold. He held Stiles close, a soft smile playing on his lips as he stared lovingly into the young man’s sparkling eyes.

_“Certain as the sun_

_Rising in the east,_

_Tale as old as time,_

_Song as old as rhyme;_

_Beauty and the beast._

_Tale as old as time,_

_Song as old as rhyme;_

_Beauty and the beast._ ”

Derek set Stiles down on his own feet, bowing before once again taking his hand and leading him out of the room.

They stepped out onto the balcony, overlooking the gardens.

Stiles sighed, leaning forward against the railing.

"Stiles, are you... are you happy here? With me?" Derek asked.

"Yes,” Stiles replied, but there was a moment of hesitation before he added, “But can one truly be happy if they're not free?"

“The nightingale,” Derek uttered under his breath.

“If I am to be truly honest, I miss my father,” Stiles admitted. “I just wish there was a way I could see him, even if it is only for a moment.”

“There is a way,” Derek said. “Follow me.”

He lead Stiles up to the decrepit room of the west wing, picking the magical mirror up off the table and handing it to the boy.

“This mirror will show you anything you wish to see, you only have to ask,” Derek explained.

Stiles nodded, holding the mirror up higher as he said, “Please show me my father.”

The reflection in the mirror rippled and changed, showing the image of his father – distressed and screaming out to someone as he was dragged towards the black carriage. Stiles knew that carriage; it was the same carriage that took his mother away to the mental asylum.

“No,” Stiles cried, tears stinging his eyes. “No, dad!”

“Go to him,” Derek said softly.

“What?” Stiles asked, spinning around to look at him.

“I release you,” Derek reiterated. “You are no longer my prisoner. You are free to go.”

Stiles let out a heavy sigh and whispered, “Thank you.”

He offered Derek the mirror but he refused, insisting, “Take it with you. That way you’ll have a way to look back and remember me.”

“Thank you,” Stiles said.

He turned to leave, the fabric of his jacket flurrying with his movement. HE hesitated, turning back to Derek.

He stood still by the table, his back turned to Stiles.

Stiles hurried back to his side, pressing a gently kiss to his whisker-covered cheek.

Derek flinched but when he turned around Stiles was gone.

Boyd and Isaac made their way into the room.

“I’d say this is going brilliantly,” Isaac said boastfully.

“I let him go,” Derek announced, his voice quiet and sad.

“What?” Scott asked, toddling into the room behind the others. “What do you mean you let him go? Why would you do that?”

“I had to,” Derek replied.

“Why?” Isaac asked.

“Because…” Derek’s voice failed him as he looked out into the gardens, watching as Stiles mounted Phillipe and rode off through the grounds and into the forest.

He drew in a deep breath and bowed his head.

“Because I love him.”

The others were silent.

“I’m sorry,” Derek rasped. “I’ve failed all of you.”

“No,” Scott objected. “You did your best. Thank you.”

One by one, they turned and left.

Derek’s eyes were drawn to the glittering rose. Another one of the velvety crimson petals fell, wilting and crumbling as it hit the table; leaving only one petal.


	15. Chapter 15

The men hurled John into the back of the carriage.

He let out a pained wheeze as he hit the solid floor of the truck. His body shuddered and he coughed violently as he tried to push himself up onto his hands and knees.

The men stepped back, Peter’s looming figure appearing in the doorway. He leant forward and in a low voice said, “I’ll make a deal with you. Give me Stiles and I’ll make this all go away.”

“Never,” John hissed.

Peter’s face twitched with rage as he slammed the doors shut, thumped the lock into place and howled, “Take him away.”

The orderly climbed into his seat and cracked the reins.

The cart rattled forward.

Peter smirked, basking in the glow of his victory.

The black horses that drove the carriage pulled to a halt, whinnying as they reared up.

Everyone turned to look, noticing the white horse that had rode in, blocking their path. The rider dismounted, the gold tails of his suit billowing out from his hips as he ran to the back of the carriage.

“Dad!” Stiles called, grabbing the bars and hoisting himself up so he could see inside the carriage.

“Stiles,” John gasped, scrambling forward and reaching through the bars to cup his son’s cheek. “You escaped.”

“He let me go,” Stiles corrected.

“He… he let you go?” John asked.

“I’ll explain it all later,” Stiles told him. “Right now, let’s get you out of here.”

The orderly slammed his hand over the latch, slotting Stiles before he could unlock the door.

Stiles glared at him.

“Let my father out,” Stiles ordered.

“I can’t do that,” the orderly said calmly.

“You have no grounds to hold him,” Stiles argued.

“He’s insane,” one man cried from the crowd. “He’s been talking of beasts, castles and snow in July.”

“It’s true!” Stiles shouted. “It’s all true.”

“Stiles,” Peter said softly, stepping forward in an attempt to comfort the boy.

“No,” Stiles interrupted. “What my father has said is true and I can prove it!”

He raced back to Phillipe, pulling the magic mirror form the pouch on the saddle and hurrying back to the centre of the crowd.

Everyone looked on with confusion and intrigue.

Stiles held the mirror before him and said, “Show me the beast.”

The surface of the mirror rippled, pulling back to show the image of the beast.

Stiles turned the mirror around and showed them, listening to their surprised gasps and cries of fear and horror as they were met with the sight of the creature’s bright aventurine eyes that were set above a wolf-like snout sparkled in the moonlight, his large figure standing tall on his slender, curved legs.

The beast wore clothes – a dress shirt, pans and a flowing cape – but they were torn to shred with age, wear and the disfigurement of his body. Long arms hung at its side, his hands disfigured, hairy like a wolf’s paws and stretched into elongated digits with jagged claws.

Peter snatched the mirror from Stiles’ hands.

“A beast,” he muttered, amazed. “It can’t be.”

“Is it dangerous?” A woman called from the crowd, holding her daughter close.

“No,” Stiles assured her. “He’s harmless. I know he looks monstrous but he’s kind and gentle. He’d never hurt anyone.”

“Of course he would,” Peter shouted, silencing Stiles. “Have you seen those fangs and those claws? He’d tear our insides out without hesitation!”

“No!” Stiles cried. “He wouldn’t.”

Peter turned on him, hissing under his breath, “If I didn’t know better I’d say you have feelings for this monster.”

“He’s not the monster, Peter; you are,” Stiles snarled. “I saw your portrait in one of the halls. I know what you did.”

Peter ignored him, turning to the crowd and shouting, “We’re not safe until his head hangs on my wall. I say we kill the beast!”

The mob cheered.

“No!” Stiles cried.

Peter turned back to the crowd and began to rile them up.

“We’re not safe until he’s dead,” a woman said quietly.

“He’ll come stalking in the night,” a man whispered.

“Set to sacrifice our children to his monstrous appetite,” a father said, holding his wife and child in his arms.

“He’ll wreak havoc on our village if we let him wander free!” Chris joined in.

“So it’s time to take some action, boys,” Peter said, snatching up a blazing torch and hoisting it into the air. “It’s time to follow me.”

He hurled it into a haystack, the fiery blaze consuming the hay and igniting a bonfire. Everyone cheered and roared as they grabbed pitchforks, pointed poles, lit torches and anything they could use as a weapon.

They began to march about the town, readying themselves as they chanted,

 _“_ _Through the mist,_ _  
__Through the woods,_ _  
__Through the darkness and the shadows._ _  
__It's a nightmare but it's one exciting ride._ __  
  


_Say a prayer_

_  
_ _Then we're there –_ _  
_ _At the drawbridge of a castle –_ _  
_ _And there's something truly terrible inside._

_It's a beast!_ _  
_ _He's got fangs –_ _  
_ _Razor sharp ones –_ _  
_ _Massive paws,_ _  
_ _Killer claws for the feast._

_  
_ _Hear him roar,_ _  
_ _See him roam,_ _  
_ _But we're not coming home_ _  
_ _'Til he's dead._ _  
_ _Good and dead._ _  
_ _Kill the Beast!”_

“No,” Stiles shouted, shoving past Peter and racing to Phillipe’s side. “I won’t let you.”

Peter grabbed his arm and hurled him into the back of the carriage. He smirked as said, “We can’t have you running off to warn the beast now, can we?”

The orderly slammed the door shut and locked it.

Stiles slammed his shoulder against the door. It rattled and thundered, but it didn’t budge.

Peter’s face appeared before the bars.

“I won’t let you hurt him again,” Stiles seethed.

Peter smirked.

“Our dear Derek is beyond redemption,” he replied smugly. “No-one can save him now. The sooner you learn to let go, the better off you’ll be. Besides, who could ever love a beast?”

Peter stepped away.

Stiles looked out the window, his shimmering eyes meeting Chris’s cold blue irises.

Peter stood before the mob, encouraging their chants,

_“_ _Light your torch,_ _  
_ _Mount your horse,_ _  
_ _‘Screw your courage to the sticking place’,_

_We're counting on Peter to lead the way._

_  
_ _Through a mist,_ _  
_ _Through a wood,_ _  
_ _Where within a haunted castle_ _  
_ _Something's lurking that you don't see every day._

_  
_ _It's a beast!_ _  
_ _One as tall as a mountain._ _  
_ _We won't rest_ _  
_ _'Til he's good and deceased._

_  
_ _Sally forth,_ _  
_ _Tally ho!_ _  
_ _Grab your sword._ _  
_ _Grab your bow._ _  
_ _Praise the Lord and here we go!_

_We don't like what we don't understand,_

_In fact, it scares us_

_And this monster is mysterious at least_

_Bring your guns, bring your knives,_

_Save your children and your wives,_

_We'll save our village and our lives ..._

_We'll kill the beast!”_

Peter sat atop his horse, holding his torch high as he lead the mob out of the town and down the track towards the castle. Their voices echoed eerily through the streets as they continued their chant,

_“Raise the flag, sing the song_

_Here we come, we're fifty strong_

_And fifty Frenchman can't be wrong,_

_Let's kill the beast!”_

Stiles clamped his hand over his mouth, fighting back his tears as he sank to the ground.

“Oh God,” he whispered. “This is all my fault.”

“Stiles,” his father said softly. “It’ll be alright… somehow.”

“I have to warn him,” Stiles muttered. “I have to get out of here. I have to warn Derek.”

“Who’s Derek?” John asked.

“The beast,” Stiles replied. “His name is Derek and he’s a good man.”

“Stiles, he took you prisoner,” John reminded him.

”Pistanthrophobia,” Stiles uttered.

“What’s that?” his father asked.

“The fear of trusting people due to past experiences with relationships gone bad,” Stiles explained. “He’s been wronged so many times that he lost faith in humanity and in himself. But he changed, he learnt how to open up and let himself feel… and I ruined it. He trusted me and I ruined it.”

The door rattled and opened.

Stiles scrambled to his feet and readied himself to fight. He froze, coming face to face with Father Parrish.

“If you have done wrong by someone then the least anyone can as for is the chance to do right,” Jordan said softly. “John, come with me. There is sanctuary for you in the church. I will keep you safe from the orderlies until your son returns.”

Stiles let out a heavy sigh of relief.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you so much, Father.”

Jordan stepped aside and let Stiles slide out of the carriage. He ran to Phillipe’s side, grabbing the reins and hastily climbing into his saddle.

“I’ll come back for you, dad,” he called over his shoulder.

“Promise me something,” his father requested.

“Anything,” Stiles replied.

“Save Derek.”

Stiles nodded.

“I promise.”

He tugged at the reins and took off.

Phillipe’s hooves tore up clumps of dry dirt, thundering across cobblestones and cantering down the open road as they hurried towards the castle.


	16. Chapter 16

Stiles leapt off Phillipe’s back, racing through the chaos that consumed the palace grounds. He burst through the front door and ran towards the stairs.

“Scott,” he called, spying the small teacup as he slid down the railing.

Stiles caught him before he hit the ground.

“You came back,” Scott muttered, astonished.

“Of course I did,” Stiles replied. “Where’s Derek?”

“He’s in the west wing,” Scott answered. “He won’t come down. He thinks this is how it all ends.”

“Not if I have anything to do with it,” Stiles growled.

He set Scott down on the bottom stairs and sprinted up to the west wing. He tore down the arching hallway and sprung into the large room. He pulled to a halt before the large window, his eyes falling on Peter as the man shouted, “Get up! Come on, _Beast_. What’s the matter? Are you to kind and gentle to fight back?”

Derek didn’t respond.

“What’s wrong, Beast? Did you love him?” Peter teased, trying to rile him up. “Did you honestly think that he’d want you? No, not when he has someone like me. And when this is over, I’ll wed him and bed him, and I’ll make sure he stops every day to look at where I’ll hang your head over the fireplace.”

Derek didn’t react.

“It’s over, Derek,” Peter said firmly.

Derek’s ears twitched, recognition passing over his face.

Peter smirked wickedly as he drew his pistol from his belt, aiming it at Derek. “Stiles is mine.”

“No!” Stiles cried.

Derek flinched, his eyes turning to Stiles. Hope glimmered in the depths as turned to look at the boy in the window.

“Stiles,” Derek gasped, rising to his feet.

Peter spun around, gun in hand, as he looked at Stiles.

Derek caught sight of the gun, the barrel now pointed at Stiles.

He acted without thinking: he grabbed Peter by the throat, hurling him across the space.

Peter hit the roof of a nearby tower, knocking the tiles free and sliding down onto the gutter.

Derek leapt after him.

Peter scurried to his feet and jumped to the nearby balcony.

Derek bounded onto the balcony, towering over Peter as he grabbed the man by the throat and hoisted him off his feet.

“I won’t let you hurt Stiles,” Derek growled.

“Then go ahead,” Peter dared, his words broken and choked out. “Kill me, you beast!”

Derek froze, his scowl weakening.

“No,” he said, dropping Peter onto the balcony. “I’m not a beast… I’m not you.”

Derek turned, bounding back over the to the tower. He leapt onto the small balcony outside the window.

Stiles took a step back, letting Derek land on something solid.

“Stiles,” Derek said softly. “You came back.”

Stiles smiled, his lips moving around words that were silenced by a gunshot.

“No!” Stiles cried.

Derek’s back arched, a roar torn from his chest as he fell to the ground.

Stiles’ eyes fell on Peter, the man holding a smoking barrel at where Derek had stood.

Peter stepped through the broken window, disappearing into the tower.

Stiles dropped to Derek’s side.

“You came back,” Derek muttered.

“Of course I came back,” Stiles whispered, fighting back his broken sobs. “I couldn’t let them… This is all my fault.”

“No, it’s not,” Derek said reassuringly.

“I should have gotten here sooner,” Stiles sobbed.

Derek reached up, his soft paw brushing Stiles’ cheek as he rasped, “Maybe it’s better this way. At least… At least I got to see you one last time.”

His hand fell away, striking the ground as the final petal fell from the rose. It drifted lifelessly before touching the bottom of the glass and wilting like all the others, nothing more than a cold husk.

From downstairs in the chaos of the castle, Stiles could hear Erica crying Boyd’s name, Melissa calling for Scott, Lydia quietly reassuring the others, and Isaac saying his final farewells to his friends.

This was the end; the furniture and ornaments were antiques, the castle was in ruins and the beast was dead.

It was all over

“No,” Stiles sobbed, arching over the beast’s body and burying his face in the soft fabric of his torn shirt. “Please… no…”

 

_I learnt a very important lesson that day: sometimes it takes losing someone to realise how much they meant to you. I knew Derek meant something to me, but until that moment, I never had the words to say it. But I remember, as I lay there sobbing over his still body, I felt those words fall from my lips;_

_“I love you.”_

 

A woman stepped into the room, the frayed hem of her dress brushing across the debris of the room. She stepped up to the rose, lifting the etched bell jar and scooped up the dead petals in her hand. She held the petals before her face and gently blew. She stepped back and watched as the breeze caught them, their vibrant crimson colour returning to their veiny flesh.

They spiralled around Derek and Stiles, a golden glow seeping through the window and lighting them.

Stiles felt a hand gently brush the back of his head, fingers intertwined with the boy’s tousled hair.

Stiles straightened, tears glistening on his cheeks as he looked down at the young man.

“Derek?” he rasped breathlessly.

The young man smiled weakly at him.

Stiles let out a heavy sigh, falling into Derek’s arms.

Around them, the gloom surrounding the castle disappeared: the towers were repaired to pristine condition and coloured white, the gargoyles were transformed into golden statues of guards, the shattered windows repaired, the fallen chandelier fixed back into the ceiling, the charred room refreshed and the slashed paintings repaired.

Downstairs they could hear the rejoicing cries of the household staff, alive and human.

“Shall we join the party?” Derek asked weakly.

Stiles helped him to his feet, taking his hand and walking with him as they made their way downstairs.

Everyone had gathered in the foyer, familiar voices but new faces.

Each took their turn in greeting Stiles and Derek, hugging them and crying with relief.

Once the shock had worn off and everyone settled, Derek turned to Stiles. He stepped up to the boy’s side and gently cupped the boy’s cheek.

“My nightingale,” he whispered. “You came back.”

“I always will,” Stiles promised.

A soft smile played across his lips as he leant forward and brought their lips together in a tender kiss.


	17. Chapter 17

Months later, the castle was a bustling place, Scott and Stiles running through the halls, John and Melissa drinking tea in the gardens, Isaac chasing after Boyd and Erica who slinked away for their own private rendezvous, the ballroom full of colour and people and the spare rooms opened up to anyone in the small town of Beacon Hills who didn’t have a home of their own.

Peter hadn’t been seen or heard since the battle at the castle. Chris had disappeared with him, but he showed up in town every now and then to check on everyone and assure them that Peter would never be seen in Beacon Hills every again.

In the months to come, Stiles and Derek were married: a private affair with an open celebration.

The ballroom was filled with people, all laughing and dancing.

Stiles and Derek took to the floor, bowing politely to each other before they began to sway to the sweet melodies that filled the ballroom. They moved swiftly and unheeded across the dancefloor.

Derek spun Stiles around, the fabric of their jackets billowing and swirling around their bodies as they moved with grace. He gently tugged at the younger man’s arm and pulled him back into his hold. He held Stiles close, a soft smile playing on his lips as he stared lovingly into the young man’s sparkling eyes.

“What are you thinking?” Derek asked.

“Have you ever thought about growing a beard?” Stiles asked, admiring the soft shadow of whiskers on his husband’s jaw.

Derek smirked, letting out a low, animalistic growl that made Stiles chuckle.

They continued to dance, listening to Lydia’s voice as she sang the song Melissa had taught her,

_“Certain as the sun_

_Rising in the east,_

_Tale as old as time,_

_Song as old as rhyme;_

_Beauty and the beast._

_Tale as old as time,_

_Song as old as rhyme;_

_Beauty and the beast._ ”

 

_So, that’s it: the story of the boy and the beast, the story of myself and the man I love._

_Even after all that pain and torment, I still don’t believe in a ‘happily ever after’. I still think it’s a cliché way to end a story that had so much emotion and upset. I’m still repulsed by the sickening expectation that that is how every story should end. And I, for one, don’t want my story to have that cliché ending._

_That being said, I have no quall with how the story has played out or where it has ended up, but this is not a happy ending; it’s not an ending at all. We still so much to do, more stories to tell and the rest of our lives to live._

_Now it’s the story of Derek and I, and we’re still looking for our happy ending. I know we’ll find it someday, but until then I have my father, my friends and the man I love. And, for now, that’s all I need._

_\- Stiles Stilinski_

 

**Author's Note:**

> celestialvoid-fanfiction.tumblr.com


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